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OF 


MADAME   AGNES. 


BY 

CHARLES  DUBOIS, 

MEMBER  OF  THE  AC  AD  EM  IE  STANISLAS. 


New  York : 
THE   CATHOLIC   PUBLICATION   SOCIETY, 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874,  by 

THE  CATHOLIC  PUBLICATION   SOCIETY, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


PREFACE. 


M.  CHARLES  DUBOIS: 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  You  wish  your  first  work  to  appear  under 
my  auspices.  Does  that  mean  I  am  to  take  you  by  the  hand, 
and,  addressing  the  respectable  community  whose  approbation 
you  are  ambitious  of  securing,  speak  somewhat  as  follows : 
"  I  have  the  honor  of  making  you  acquainted  with  M.  Charles 
Dubois,  a  gentleman  of  cultivated  mind  and  feelings.  I  also 
present  Madame  Agnes,  which  is  a  work  of  merit.  To  all 
who  wish  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  this  author  and  his 
work  I  promise  much  pleasure  and  great  benefit "  ? 

Jesting  apart,  I  think  you  are  doubly  wrong.  In  the  first 
place,  your  book  has  no  need  of  a  sponsor.  And  then,  you 
invest  me  quite  gratuitously  with  an  authority  that  only  be- 
longs to  Mare"chaux  de  la  literature.  Nevertheless,  as  it  is 
your  wish,  I  will  fulfil  it. 

But  you  are  by  no  means  ignorant  that  a  preface  is  a 
very  delicate  affair.  In  the  first  place,  no  one  reads  it.  Out 
of  ten  persons  who  open  a  book,  seven  or  eight  generally 
skip  deliberately  the  Preface,  Introduction,  Avant-Propos, 
Advice  to  the  Reader,  etc.,  even  if  signed  by  the  most  cele- 
brated names.  Since,  therefore,  the  thoughtful  alone  will 
deign  to  read  this  prefatory  letter,  why  not  venture  on  a 
slight  moral?  Why  not  avail  myself  of  Madame  Agnes  to 
speak  of  the  class  of  literature  to  which  it  belongs? 

Your  book  has  certainly  more  than  one  thing  to  recom- 
mend it.  It  displays  at  once,  as  I  could  show,  keen  obser- 
vation, a  skilful  pen,  an  ardent  nature,  sterling  sense,  and 
a  Christian  spirit.  And  yet  it  is  not  all  this  that  strikes 
me  most  forcibly,  and  which  I  wish  to  dwell  on  here. 
Madame  Agnes  is  an  argument,  and  a  strong  one,  in  favor 
of  one  of  the  subjects,  at  once  moral  and  literary,  which  I 
have  most  at  heart. 

2129768 


4  Preface. 

How  may  all  the  specious  objections  against  religious  works 
of  fiction  be  summed  up  ?  In  the  following  dilemma :  either 
the  work  is  romantic,  and  therefore  open  to  most  of  the 
objections  against  pernicious  novels,  or  it  is  sensible  and 
taken  from  real  life — then  it  is  tedious. 

I  will  not  dwell  on  this  double  petitio  principii  here  mani- 
fest. But  it  must  be  remembered  that  such  reasoning  might 
be  used  against  the  Christian  life  itself,  and  make  it  out  to 
be  a  narrow,  dull,  tame,  insipid  life,  systematically  opposed 
to  all  pleasure  and  enthusiasm — in  a  word,  tiresome.  . 

You  admit,  I  hope,  that  this  conception  of  the  Christian 
life  could  only  be  formed  by  an  opponent,  or,  at  least,  by 
one  of  those  unhappy  individuals  who  are  only  Christians 
against  their  will.  You  admit — and  you  cannot  deny  it,  if 
you  ever  tasted  the  sweets  of  genuine  piety — that  the  Chris- 
tian life  is  not  what  a  vain  people  imagines.  The  life  of  a 
true  Christian,  in  spite  of  his  struggles,  his  sufferings,  his 
trials,  and  the  austerity  necessary  for  all  who  constantly 
watch  over  themselves,  in  spite  of  the  dictates  of  an  en- 
lightened conscience  which  may  extend  even  to  martyrdom, 
has  its  brightness,  its  pleasure,  its  delicious  tears  and  emo- 
tions, an  ineffable  peace,  and  a  wealth  of  moral  attractiveness 
that  'cannot  be  rivalled. 

And  you  presume  to  declare  the  religious  novel  necessarily 
tedious! 

But  is  the  religious  novel  anything  more  than  a  representa- 
tion of  the  Christian  life?  And  why  should  a  life  so  sweet 
and  beautiful,  and  so  beneficial  in  itself,  cease  to  have,  as 
soon  as  it  is  depicted,  either  nobleness,  or  grandeur,  or 
attractive  examples,  or  an  irresistible  charm?  I  wish  no 
other  witness  than  Madame  Agnes. 

Your  fundamental  idea  is  excellent.  To  those  discouraged — 
discouraged  in  the  very  outset  of  their  career — by  difficulties 
and  annoyances  that  may  be  overcome,  Madame  Agnes  de- 
picts other  lives  marked  by  trials  even  more  numerous  and 
much  more  severe.  But  because  theirs  were  Christian  lives, 
and  the  chief  actors,  both  young  men  and  women,  compre- 
hended the  beauty  and  value  of  sacrifice,  theirs,  on  the 
whole,  were  happy  lives,  which  emit,  as  it  were,  a  perfume 


Preface.  5 

invigorating  and  exhilarating.  Agnes,  Victor,  Louis,  Eugenie, 
and  Aline,  so  far  from  being  tiresome,  are  exceedingly  in- 
teresting and  attractive  characters.  Before  the  reader  is  a 
fourth  through  the  volume,  they  inspire  him  with  genuine 
interest. 

In  proportion  as  the  simple  events  of  this  story  are  un- 
rolled, the  reader  perceives  more  clearly  the  general  spirit 
that  animates  it.  And  its  end  leaves  him  full  of  good  im- 
pressions and  more  firmly  grounded  than  ever,  if  he  is  a 
Christian,  in  the  principles  that  are  the  very  essence  of 
Christianity. 

If  he  has  not  the  happiness  of  believing,  but  still  has 
some  regard  for  the  truth,  and  has  experienced  great  sorrows, 
he  will  compare  the  Christian's  courageous  resignation  with 
the  wild  or  dull  despair  that  fills  every  suffering  soul  that 
has  not  felt  the  support  of  religion. 

Do  you  suppose  that  such  a  comparison  is  not  in  itself 
a  great  benefit  and  the  prelude  to  more  than  one  conver- 
sion ?  To  strengthen  Christians  in  their  faith  by  making  it 
more  attractive,  to  weaken  the  incredulity  of  the  sceptical  by 
inspiring  them  with  the  admiration  and  love  of  truth — such 
is  the  object  you  aim  at.  In  my  opinion,  you  have  fully 
accomplished  it  in  Madame  Agnes. 

Continue,  therefore,  courageously  in  the  work  you  have 
begun.  Give  Madame  Agnes  successors  of  a  similar  stamp. 
You  will  thereby  do  a  great  deal  of  good.  I  will  add  that 
your  books  will  likewise,  under  Providence,  procure  you 
many  friends.  Continue  to  give  me  a  small  place  among 
those  who  admire  your  talents,  and  love  you  still  more  as 
a  man. 

EUG.  DE  MARGERIE. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

PAGE. 

IN  WHICH  WE  ARE  MADE  ACQUAINTED  WITH  MADAME  AGNES,       .          .  9 

CHAPTER  II. 
PROVIDENCE  SENDS  A  LODGER, n 

CHAPTER  III. 
TRUE  LOVE  :  HAPPY  UNION,     .       .  .       .       .       .       .       .        12 

CHAPTER  IV. 
SAD  PRESENTIMENTS,        ...  .......        14 

CHAPTER  V. 
AN  UNEXPECTED  ASSAULT, 16 

CHAPTER  VI. 
VICTOR  AT  THE  POINT  OF  DEATH,  .       .       .  • 17 

CHAPTER  VII. 
A  PROVIDENTIAL  EVENT, 19 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

CONFESSION, 22 

h 

CHAPTER  IX. 
BROTHER  AND  SISTER 28 

CHAPTER  X. 
ALINE'S  HOPES, 32 

CHAPTER  XI. 
EUGENIE 35 

CHAPTER  XII. 
MORE  ABOUT  EUGENIE — A  REAL  FRIEND, 42 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
Louis  AT  WORK, .47 

CHAPTER  XIV.                        % 
PERHAPS  PROPHETIC,  53 


3  Contents. 

CHAPTER  XV. 

PAGE 

A  QUESTION, 56 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
LOVE  WITHOUT  HOPE, 60 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
A  SOUBRETTE'S  PLOT 62 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
A  GLEAM  BEFORE  THE  STORM, 64 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
ALBERT'S  VISIT, 69 

CHAPTER  XX. 
A  VILLAIN,         ••"•-. 74 

CHAPTER  XXI. 
CALUMNY, 8r 

CHAPTER  XXII. 
THE  ENEMY  ON  EITHER  HAND 84 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 
VICTOR'S  DEATH— PLOTS  AGAINST  Louis, 93 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 
Louis  is  DISMISSED I04 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
ALL  is  LOST  !— THE  PROSPECT  BRIGHTENS 108 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

PALS  CE  QUE  DOIS,  ADVIENNE  QUE  POURRA  ! 115 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 
A  VILLAIN'S  REVENGE ng 

*                             CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
THE  BETROTHAL, I23 

CONCLUSION, 126 


MADAME   AGNES. 


CHAPTER  I. 


IN  WHICH   WE  ARE   MADE  ACQUAINTED   WITH   MADAME  AGNES. 


ABOUT  twenty  years  ago,  I  lived  in 
a  town  in  France  which  I  may  be 
allowed  to  call  Philopolis.  It  need 
not  be  sought  on  the  map :  it  will 
not  be  found  there,  at  least  under  the 
name  I  think  it  proper  to  call  it  by, 
in  order  to  avoid  all  appearance  of 
indiscretion.  The  story  I  am  about 
to  relate  is  really  a  true  one. 

I  had  just  finished  my  school-days, 
and,  having  carefully  thought  over 
the  different  professions  which  seem- 
ed to  accord  with  my  tastes,  I  felt — 
and  it  may  be  imagined  how  bitterly 
— that  not  one  of  them  was  within 
my  means.  To  embrace  any  of  them 
would  have  required  a  larger  sum 
than  I  had  the  least  hope  of.  Un- 
der such  unfavorable  circumstances, 
I  became  a  tutor  in  a  Lycee. 

God  preserve  my  very  enemies,  if 
I  have  any,  from  so  trying  an  occu- 
pation !  At  the  end  of  three  months, 
worn  out  with  my  labors,  and  over- 
whelmed with  humiliations  and  sad- 
ness, I  had  fallen  into  such  a  state 
of  discouragement,  not  to  say  of  de- 
spair, that  I  regarded  myself  as  the 
most  unfortunate  of  men. 

To  those  who  wish  to  be  distin- 
guished from  the  crowd,  there  is 
something  peculiarly  attractive  in 
looking  upon  themselves  as  more 
unhappy  than  common  mortals.  I 
gave  myself  up  to  this  notion,  at  first 
through  vanity.  But  this  kind  of 
superiority  is  by  no  means  cheering, 
I  assure  you,  so  I  soon  sought  con- 
solation. Thank  God,  I  had  not  far 
to  go.  My  old  friend,  Mme.  Ag- 


nes, was  at  hand.  I  sought  refuge 
with  her.  I  speak  as  if  she  were 
advanced  in  years,  but  it  must  be 
acknowledged  she  would  have  seem- 
ed a  mere  child  to  Methuselah.  She 
was  thirty-six  years  of  age ;  but  I  was 
only  eighteen,  and  thought  her  old. 

Mme.  Agnes  lived  on  a  broad  and 
pleasant  quay  that  gently  sloped 
towards  a  noble  river.  Not  fifty 
steps  from  the  house  rolled  the  swift 
current  of  the  Loire.  Beyond  was 
an  extensive  plain  from  vhich  rose 
innumerable  spires. 

When  I  arrived,  I  found  rny  friend 
in  her  usual  seat  near  the  window. 
She  was  in  a  large  arm-chair,  with  a 
table  before  her,  on  which  were  all 
the  materials  necessary  for  a  painter 
of  miniatures.  Mme.  Agnes  was  re- 
nowned in  Philopolis  as  an  artist. 
Her  uncommon  talent  enabled  her 
to  support  her  mother  and  young 
sister  in  a  comfortable  manner. 
Alas  !  poor  lady,  she  had  been  a  para- 
lytic for  ten  years. 

According  to  her  custom,  she  laid 
aside  her  work  when  I  entered,  and 
welcomed  me  with  a  smile.  But  this 
expression  of  pleasure  gave  place  to 
one  of  motherly  anxiety  when  she 
observed  the  sad  face  I  wore. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  poor 
child  ?"  said  she.  "  You  have  grown 
frightfully  thin." 

"  I  cannot  say  1  am  ill,"  I  repli 
ed,  "but  I  am  down-hearted,  and 
have  so  much  reason  to  be,  that 
things  cannot  continue  long  in  this 
way :  I  should  die." 


10 


Madame  Agnes. 


Thus  saying,  I  leaned  my  head 
against  Mme.  Agnes'  chair,  like  a 
great  child  as  I  was,  and  cried  heart- 
ily. I  had  so  long  restrained  my 
tears!  .  .  . 

Mme.  Agnes  softly  placed  her  hand 
on  my  head,  and  consoled  me 
with  a  kindness  truly  maternal. 
When  my  explosion  of  grief  had 
passed  away,  she  made  me  give  her 
an  account  of  my  troubles.  I  told 
her,  perhaps  for  the  tenth  time,  what 
an  inclination  I  had  for  a  literary  life, 
only  I  was  absolutely  too  poor  to 
embrace  it.  I  added  that  my  duties 
as  a  tutor  were  repugnant ;  the  pupils 
were  insolent  and  unfeeling ;  in  short, 
I  concealed  nothing  that  afflicted 
me.  At  length  I  ended  with  these 
words  : 

"You  now  see,  Mme.  Agnes, 
that  I  could  not  be  more  wretch- 
ed than  I  am.  This  must  end.,  Give 
me,  I  beg,  some  of  the  good  advice 
I  have  so  many  times  received  from 
you.  Tell  me  what  I  must  do." 

"  Have  patience,  my  child,  and 
wait  till  God  makes  the  way  smooth - 

er-", 

"Wait!    when  one    suffers   as  I 

do  ?  .  .  ..When  I  abhor  my  position  ? 
.  .  .  When  I  feel  how  happy  I  could 
be  elsewhere !  .  .  .  Ah !  Mme.  Agnes, 
if  you  knew  what  I  have  to  en- 
dure— if  you  only  comprehended 
my  complete  despair !" 

"  Poor  child,  your  trials  are  bit- 
ter, I  acknowledge;  but  you  are 
young,  capable,  and  industrious, 
and  will  get  a  better  position  by- 
and-by." 

"  To  be  forced  to  endure  it  only 
a  year  would  be  beyond  my  strength. 
Neither  my  disposition,  nor  tastes, 
nor  health  could  stand  what  I  have 
to  bear." 

"  How  many  others  are  in  a  simi- 
lar position,  but  without  even  the 
hope  you  have  of  soon  exchanging 
an  employment  without  results — de- 


testable, if  you  like — for  one  more 
congenial!  The  task  they  aie  pursu- 
ing must  be  that  of  their  whole  lives. 
They  know  it,  and  resign  themselves 
to  it.  You,  who  have  only  to  bear 
your  trials  for  a  certain  time,  sr.ist 
imitate  their  example.  Come,  come, 
my  friend,  every  one  has  his  cross 
here  below.  Let  us  bear  ours  cheer- 
fully, and  it  will  soon  seem  light." 
These  consoling  words  were  utter- 
ed in  a  sympathetic  tone,  as  if  they 
came  from  the  heart.  I  was  touch- 
ed. I  began  to  look  at  Mme.  Ag- 
nes more  attentively  than  ever  be- 
fore, and  the  thought  occurred  to  me 
like  a  revelation :  "  How  much  this 
woman  must  have  suffered,  and  how 
instructive  would  be  the  account  of 
her  life !" 

"  Mme.  Agnes,"  said  I,  "  you* 
advice  is  excellent,  but  example 
would  produce  at  still  greater  impres- 
sion on  me.  I  beg  you  to  relate  the 
history  of  your  life.  You  have  evi- 
dently gone  through  much  suffering, 
and  with  great  patience,  I  am  confi- 
dent. I  will  endeavor  to  conform 
to  your  example." 

"  You  require  a  sad  task  of  me," 
she  replied ;  "  but  no  matter,  I  will 
gratify  you.  My  story — and  who  of 
us  has  not  one  ? — will  prove  useful  to 
you,  I  think.  But  you  must  not  be  so 
ready  to  declare  me  a  saint.  I  never 
was  one,  as  you  will  soon  see.  Yes, 
I  have  suffered,  as  you  suppose — 
greatly  suffered,  and  have  learned 
that  the  best  means  of  mitigating  our 
sufferings  is  to  submit  to  God's  will, 
and  to  cherish- it.  The  lesson  to  be 
derived  from  my  history  will  be  of 
use  to  you,  I  trust,  and  therefore 
I  yield  to  your  request. 

"  One  word  more  before  commenc- 
ing. I  would  observe  that  the  ac- 
count of  my  own  life  is  closely  inter- 
woven with  the  lives  of  several  per- 
sons whom  you  will  not  reproach  me 
for  making  you  acquainted  with. 


Madame  Agnes. 


II 


By  a  concurrence  of  circumstances 
which  would  appear  to  me  almost 
inexplicable  did  I  not  behold  the 
hand  of  God  therein,  my  life  for 
many  years  was  identified,  so  to 
speak,  with  theirs.  I  witnessed  the 
struggles  these  loved  ones  had  to 
make ;  I  shared  their  very  thoughts  ; 
I  sympathized  in  their  sorrows,  as 
they  in  mine;  and  I  also  had  the 
happiness  of  participating  in  their 
joys. 


"  When,  therefore,  I  invoke  these 
remembrances  you  wish  me  to  recall, 
I  find  all  along  the  pathway  of  my 
life  these  friends  now  gone.  I  could 
not  relate  my  own  history  without 
relating  theirs.  But  everything  en- 
courages me  to  go  on.  The  task  is 
pleasant.  It  is  sweet  to  speak  of 
those  we  have  loved !  The  faithful 
picture  I  am  going  to  draw  of  their 
lives  will  be  as  full  of  instruction  to 
you,  my  friend,  as  that  of  my  own." 


CHAPTER   II. 


PROVIDENCE  SENDS  A  LODGER. 


To  begin:  my  father,  a  worthy 
man  and  a  sincere  Christian,  was  a 
Chefde  Division  at  the  Prefecture.  A 
sudden  illness  bereft  me  of  his  care 
when  I  was  barely  fifteen  years  old. 
My  mother,  my  young  sister,  and 
myself  were  left  in  quite  limited  cir- 
cumstances, being  wholly  dependent 
on  the  rent  of  this  small  house,  which 
had  belonged  to  the  family  many 
years.  Some  time  after,  a  pension 
of  five  hundred  francs  was  added  to 
our  income  by  the  government  which 
my  father  had  faithfully  served.  Our 
position  was  very  sad,  and  the  more 
so  because,  during  my  father's  life, 
we  had  everything  in  abundance. 
But  our  misfortunes  offered  us  a 
thousand  inducements  to  draw  near- 
er to  God.  It  is  only  ill-balanced 
souls — at  once  proud  and  weak — 
that  disregard  him  who  chastises 
them.  Poor  souls!  they  are  dou- 
bly to  be  pitied,  for  they  suffer  and 
do  not  have  recourse  to  him  who 
alone  can  console  them !  As  for  us, 
God  granted  us  the  grace  to  recog- 
nize his  agency.  He  sustained  us, 
and  we  humbly  submitted  to  his  di- 
vine decrees.  Misfortune  only  ren- 
dered us  the  more  pious. 

I  had  had  a  special  taste  for  paint- 
ing from  my  childhood,  but  still  lack- 
ed proficiency,  notwithstanding  the 


lessons  I  had  taken.  I  now  set  to  work 
with  ardor,  though  I  had  no  master. 
At  the  end  of  a  year  I  had  made  so 
much  progress  that  an  old  teacher  of 
mine,  the  principal  of  a  boarding, 
school — an  excellent  person,  who 
took  an  interest  in  our  affairs — re- 
ceived me  as  teacher  of  drawing  in 
her  establishment.  She  also  made 
me  give  English  lessons  to  beginners. 
This  additional  resource  restored 
ease  in  a  measure  to  our  household. 
Nevertheless,  we  were  obliged  to 
practise  the  strictest  economy.  To. 
enable  us  to  get  on  swimmingly,  as 
my  mother  said  with  a  smile,  we  at 
last  resolved  to  rent  the  spacious 
ready-furnished  apartments  on  the 
ground  floor.  The  first  story  was 
occupied  by  a  lodger,  who  was,  at 
the  same  time,  a  friend  of  ours.  As. 
for  us,  we  lived  in  the  second  story. 
Things  went  on  thus  for  some 
years.  I  was  nearly  twenty,  when 
one  day  a  young  man,  whom  neither 
my  mother  nor  myself  koew,  called 
to  say  he  had  heard  our  furnished 
rooms  were  vacant,  and  that  he  would 
like  to  occupy  them.  My  mother  was 
greatly  pleased  with  his  frank,  open 
manner.  She  is  very  social,  you 
know,  and  made  the  stranger  sit 
dovo.  They  entered  into  conversa- 
tion, and  I  sat  listening  to  them. 


12 


Madame  Agnes. 


11  Am  I  mistaken,  monsieur  ?"  said 
any  mother,  after  a  while ;  "  it  seems 
as  if  I  have  already  met  you  some- 
where." 

"  Yes,  madame,"  replied  the  young 
man,  "  I  have  had  the  honor  of  see- 
ing you  more  than  once." 
'    "  But  where  ?" 

"  At  M.  Comte,  the  apothecary's. 
I  was  the  head  clerk  there." 

"  That  is  it !  ...  I  remember  now. 
.  .  .  And  you  have  left  him  ?" 

"  Under  the  most  singular  circum- 
stances. It  seems  I  am  a  writer 
without  being  aware  of  it." 

"  How  so  ?" 

"  You  know  the  Phtlopolis  Catholic 
Journal?" 

"  Certainly  :  an  excellent  paper. 
It  is  a  great  pity  it  is  not  so  success- 
ful as  it  deserves  to  be.  But  be- 
tween us,  it  is  partly  its  own  fault :  it 
lacks  interest  and  ability.  It  has 
only  one  able  contributor — Victor 
Barnier,  but  he  does  not  write  often 
enough." 

"  The  poor  fellow  cannot  help  it. 
His  duties  at  the  apothecary's  shop 
have  naturally  superseded  his  taste 
for  journalism."  .  .  . 

"  What !  are  you  Victor  Barnier  ?" 

"Yes,  madame." 

"  Ah  !  well,  young  man,  you  do 
not  lack  talent:" 

^  Others  have  said  the  same,  mad- 
ame. I  hope  you  are  not  all  mis- 
taken, especially  for  the  sake  of  the 
Catholic  Journal,  of  which  I  have 
been  appointed  the  principal  editor. 
I  refused  the  post  at  first,  the  re- 
sponsibility seemed  so  great.  They 
insisted.  The  position  surpassed  my 
wishes.  Without  any  one's  knowing 


it,  I  had  for  many  years  ardently 
longed  to  be  a  writer.  But  like  so 
many  others,  the  limited  circumstan- 
ces of  my  family  prevented  it.  Now, 
thanks  to  this  unexpected  offer,  the 
opportunity  of  following  my  natural 
inclinations  is  so  tempting  that  I 
cannot  resist  it.  My  good  mother 
tells  me  it  is  a  perilous  career,  and 
that  I  shall  meet  with  more  trouble 
than  success.  No  matter !  I  am  so 
fond  of  literary  pursuits  that,  were 
they  to  afford  me  only  one  day  of 
happiness  in  my  life,  I  should  still 
cling  to  them.  And  then,  I  say  it 
without  boasting,  I  love  above  all 
things  the  cause  I  am  to  defend,  and 
hope  through  divine  assistance  to  be- 
come its  able  champion.  I  have, 
therefore,  left  M.  Comte's,  though 
not  without  some  regret.  I  enter 
upon  my  duties  to-morrow,  and — am 
in  want  of  lodgings." 

"  Oh !  well,  that  is  all  settled.  You 
shall  come  here  and  be  well  taken 
care  of." 

After  this,  Victor  left  us.  I 
have  only  given  you  the  substance 
of  the  conversation  in  which  I  more 
than  once  took  part.  I  must  con- 
fess Victor  won  my  esteem  and  good* 
will  at  this  first  interview.  He 
merited  them.  He  was  at  once  an 
excellent  and  a  talented  man — that 
was  to  be  seen  at  the  first  glance. 
The  better  he  was  known,  the  more 
evident  it  became  that  his  outward 
appearance,  pleasing  as  it  was,  was 
not  deceptive.  He  was  then  twenty- 
five  years  old,  but,  though  young,  he 
had  had  many  trials,  I  assure  you — 
trials  similar  to  yours,  my  young 
friend,  but  much  more  severe. 


CHAPTER    III. 
TRUE     LOVE — HAPPY  UNION. 


THE  following  day  Victor  took  up 
his  abode  with  us.  Before  a  fort- 
night had  elapsed,  my  mother  was 


enchanted  with  her  new  lodger.  She 
sounded  his  praises  from  morning 
till  night.  This  may  perhaps  aston- 


Madame  Agnes. 


ish  you,  but  you  must  know  that  she 
and  I  were  always  in  the  habit  of 
telling  each  other  our  very  thoughts. 
This  reciprocal  confidence  was  so 
perfect  that  it  might  be  truly  said  we 
concealed  nothing  from  each  other. 

And  I  must  confess  Victor  showed 
himself  every  day  more  worthy  of  my 
mother's  admiration.  He  was  the 
most  modest,  amiable,  industrious, 
and  orderly  of  young  men — a  genu- 
ine model  for  Christian  men  of  let- 
ters. He  rose  every  morning  at  an 
early  hour,  and  worked  in  his  room 
till  about  eight  o'clock.  Then,  un- 
less his  occupations  were  too  press- 
ing, he  heard  Mass  at  a  neighboring 
church.  After  that,  he  went  to  the 
Journal  office,  where  he  remained 
till  noon  ;  then  he  returned  to  break- 
fast. He  left  again  at  one,  came 
back  at  three,  worked  till  dinner- 
time, then  studied  till  ten  at  night, 
and  often  later. 

"  Why  do  you  work  so  hard  ?  " 
said  my  mother  to  him  one  day. 
"  The  life  of  a  journalist,  according 
to  you,  is  that  of  a  galley-slave.  I 
never  should  have  thought  an  editor 
had  so  hard  a  time.  You  have  all 
the  four  large  pages  of  the  Journal  to 
write  yourself,  then,  M.  Victor  ?  " 

"  By  no  means,  dear  madame.  I 
write  the  leading  article  every  day, 
and  in  a  short  time,  too,  for  I  have 
the  peculiarity  of  not  writing  well 
when  I  write  slowly.  This  done,  I 
look  over  the  other  articles  for  the 
paper.  As  I  am  responsible  for  them, 
I  do  not  accept  them  till  they  are 
carefully  examined.  This  is  my 
whole  task — apparently  an  easy  one, 
but  tedious  and  difficult  in  reality." 

"  Yes;  I  see  you  have  a  great  deal 
to  do  at  the  office ;  but  why  do  you 
continue  to  work  at  home  ?  " 

"  Two  motives  oblige  me  to  study 
— to  increase  my  knowledge,  and  pre- 
vent ennui.  Having  risen  from  a 
mere  apothecary's  clerk  to  be  the 


chief  editor  of  an  important  journal, 
I  have  to  apply  myself  to  keep  apace 
with  my  new  profession.  A  journal- 
ist must  be  imprudent  or  dishonest 
who  discusses  any  subject  on  which 
he  has  not  sufficient  information. 
And  think  of  the  multitude  of  ques- 
tions connected  with  politics,  political 
economy,  legislation,  literature,  and 
religion  itself  which  I  have  in  turn 
to  treat  of!  In  the  Paris  newspapers, 
each  editor  writes  on  the  subjects  he 
understands  the  best.  The  work  is 
thus  divided,  to  the  great  advantage 
of  the  paper  and  its  editors.  Here, 
I  alone  am  often  responsible  for 
everything.  Nevertheless,  the  care 
of  my  health,  as  well  as  my  indolence, 
would  induce  me  to  rest  a  few  hours 
a  day  ;  but  where  shall  I  pass  them  ? 
— At  the  cafe  ?  I  go  there  sometimes 
to  extend  my  knowledge  of  human 
nature;  but  one  cannot  go  there 
much  without  being  in  danger  of 
contracting  injurious  habits. — With 
my  friends  ?  I  have  none,  and  am 
in  no  hurry  to  make  any.  The  choice 
of  a  friend  is  such  a  serious  thing! 
One  cannot  be  too  cautious  about 
it." 

"  Corne  and  see  us,"  said  my  mo- 
ther, with  her  habitual  cordiality. 
"  When  you  have  nowhere  else  to 
go,  and  your  mind  is  weary,  come  up 
and  pass  an  hour  in  the  evening  with 
your  neighbors." 

Victor  oame,  at  first  occasionally, 
then  every  day.  Only  a  few  weeks 
elapsed  before  I  felt  that  I  loved  him. 
His  companionship  was  so  delight- 
ful ;  he  had  so  much  delicacy  in  little 
things ;  he  was  so  frank,  so  devoted 
to  all  that  is  beautiful  and  good ! 
Did  he  love  me  in  return  ?  No  one 
could  have  told,  for  he  was  as  timid 
as  a  young  girl. 

But  this  timidity  was  surmounted 
when  my  feast-day  arrived.  He  came 
in  blushing  with  extreme  embarrass- 
ment— poor  dear  friend  1  I  can  still 


Madame  Agnes. 


see  him — holding  a  bouquet  in  his 
left  hand,  which  he  concealed  behind 
him,  while  with  the  other  he  present- 
ed my  mother  with  an  open  paper. 
She  took  it,  glanced  at  it,  and,  after 
reading  a  few  words,  said : 

"  But  this  is  not  addressed  to  me. 
Here,  Agnes,  these  stanzas  are  for  you, 
my  child  !  And  I  see  a  bouquet !  " 

Victor  presented  it  to  me  in  an 
agitated  manner.  I  myself  was  so 
confused  that  I  longed  to  run  away 
to  hide  my  embarrassment.  I  con- 
cealed it  as  well  as  I  could  behind 
the  sheet  on  which  the  stanzas  were 
written,  and  read  them  in  a  low  tone. 
They  gracefully  thanked  my  mother 
for  all  her  kindness  to  him,  and  ended 
with  some  wishes  for  me — wishes  that 
were  ardent  and  touching.  In  a 
tremulous  tone  I  expressed  my  grati- 
tude with  a  sincerity  which  was  quite 
natural.  Our  embarrassment  was 
not  of  long  continuance.  It  soon 
passed  off.  and  we  spent  the 
evening  in  delightful  conversation. 
One  would  have  thought  we  had  al- 


ways lived  together,  and  formed  but 
one  family. 

The  next  morning,  when  I  returned 
from  giving  my  lessons,  what  was  my 
astonishment  to  find  Victor  with  my 
mother ! 

"  Here  she  is  to  decide  the  ques- 
tion," exclaimed  the  latter  joyfully. 
"  M.  Victor  loves  you,  and  wishes  to 
know  if  you  will  be  his  wife." 

"  Mother,"  I  replied,  "  must  I  be 
separated  from  you  ?  " 

"  Less  than  ever,"  cried  Victor. 

My  delightful  dream  was  realized ! 
I  was  to  be  united  to  the  man  I 
loved  with  all  my  heart — whom  I 
esteemed  without  any  alloy  !  And 
this  without  being  obliged  to  sepa- 
rate from  her  of  whom  I  was  the  sole 
reliance. 

I  extended  my  hand  to  Victor,  and 
threw  myself  into  my  mother's  arms, 
thanking  her  as  well  as  I  could,  but 
in  accents  broken  by  tears.  .  .  . 

A  month  after,  we  were  married, 
and  happy — as  happy,  I  believe,  as 
people  can  be  here  below. 


CHAPTER   IV. 


SAD    PRESENTIMENTS. 


THENCEFORTH  began  a  life  so  sweet 
that  I  am  unable  to  describe  it. 
Victor  and  I  lived  in  the  most  de- 
lightful harmony.  Our  love  for  each 
other  increased  daily.  We  had  but 
one  heart  and  one  soul.  Our  very 
tastes  accorded. 

Oh  !  how  charming  and  happy  is 
the  wedded  life  of  two  Christian  souls  ! 
What  mutual  sympathy !  How  they 
divine  each  other's  thoughts  !  How 
readily  they  make  the  concessions  at 
times  so  necessary,  for  the  best 
matched  people  in  this  world  do  not 
always  agree  !  A  life  more  simple 
than  ours  cannot  be  imagined,  and 
yet  it  was  so  sweet ! 

I  worked  beside  Victor  in  the 
morning  and  during  a  part  of  the 


afternoon,  looking  at  him  from  time 
to  time,  saying  a  few  words,  or  lis- 
tening as  he  read  what  he  had  just 
composed.  He  said  he  first  tried 
the  effect  of  his  writings  on  me. 
How  happy  I  was  when  he  .thus 
gave  me  the  first  taste  of  one  of  his 
spirited  articles,  in  which  he  defend- 
ed his  principles  with  an  ardor  of 
conviction  and  a  vigor  of  style  which 
impressed  even  those  who  were 
sceptical. 

Before  dinner  we  went  to  walk  to- 
gether. I  persuaded  Victor  to  de- 
vote a  part  of  each  day  to  physical 
exercise  as  well  as  mental  repose. 
Our  conversation  always  gave  a 
fresh  charm  to  these  walks.  And 
yet  we  did  not  talk  much,  but  we 


Madame  Agnes. 


infused  our  whole  souls  into  a  word 
or  two,  or  a  smile.  How  often  I 
dreamed  of  heaven  during  those  de- 
licious hours  !  It  is  thus,  I  said  to 
myself,  the  angels  above  hold  com- 
munion with  each  other.  They  have 
no  need  of  words  to  make  themselves 
understood. 

Among  the  pleasant  features  of 
that  period,  I  must  not  forget  that 
of  Victor's  success.  Before  he  was 
appointed  editor,  the  poor  paper 
vegetated.  There  were  but  few  sub- 
scribers. No  one  spoke  of  the  ob- 
scure sheet  which  timidly  defended 
sound  principles  and  true  doctrines. 
What  a  sad  figure  it  made  in  the 
presence  of  its  contemporary,  The 
Independent — a  shameless,  arrogant 
journal  which  boasted  of  despising 
all  religious  belief,  and  scoffed  at  the 
honest  people  foolish  enough  to  read 
it! 

Victor  had  scarcely  been  chief 
editor  of  this  despised  paper  three 
months  before  there  was  a  decided 
change.  Every  day  added  to  the 
list  of  subscribers.  The  Catholic 
Journal  was  spoken  of  on  all  sides. 
The  sceptical,  even,  discussed  it.  As 
to  The  Independent,  it  was  forced  to 
descend  into  the  arena.  In  spite  of 
itself,  it  had  to  engage  in  conflict 
against  an  adversary  as  skilled  in 
irony  as  in  logic.  I  acknowledge  I 
was  proud  of  Victor's  success,  and, 
what  was  more,  it  made  me  happy. 
For  a  long  time,  young  as  I  was,  I 
had  groaned  at  seeing  Catholic  inter- 
ests so  poorly  defended.  They  were 
now  as  ably  sustained  as  I  could 
wish,  and  by  the  man  whom  I  loved. 
All  my  wishes  were  surpassed  ! 

Nevertheless,  there  is  no  perfect 
nappiness  in  this^  world.  Even  those 
blissful  years  were  not  exempt  from 
sorrow.  God  granted  me  twice,  with 
an  interval  of  two  years,  the  long- 
wished-for  joy  of  being  a  mother,  but 
each  time  Providence  only  allowed 


its  continuance  a  few  months.  My 
first  child,  a  boy,  died  at  the  end  of 
six  months.  The  second,  a  daughter, 
was  taken  from  me  before  it  was  a 
year  old.  You  are  young,  my  friend 
and  cannot  understand  how  afflict- 
ing such  losses  are.  A  mother's 
heart,  I  assure  you,  is  broken  when 
she  sees  her  child  taken  from  her, 
however  young  it  may  be.  My  hus- 
band himself  was  greatly  distressed 
when  our  little  boy  was  carried  off 
after  an  illness  of  only  a  few  hours. 
But  his  grief  was  still  more  profound 
when  our  little  girl  died.  Dear  child ! 
though  only  nine  months  old,  her 
face  was  full  of  intelligence,  her  eyes 
were  expressive,  and  she  had  a  won- 
derful way  of  making  herself  under- 
stood. She  passed  quietly  away, 
softly  moaning,  and  gazing  at  us  with 
affection.  Her  father  held  her  in 
his  arms  the  whole  time  of  her  long 
agony.  It  seemed  as  if  he  thus 
hoped  to  retain  her.  She,  too,  was 
sad,  I  am  sure.  She  seemed  to 
know  we  were  in  grief,  and  to  leave 
us  with  regret.  Her  sweet  face  only 
resumed  its  joyful  expression  after 
her  soul  had  taken  flight  for  heaven ; 
then  a  celestial  happiness  beamed 
from  her  features  consecrated  by 
death.  Victor  stood  gazing  at  her 
a  long  time  as  she  lay  on  the  bed 
with  a  crucifix  in  her  innocent  hands. 
His  lips  murmured  a  prayer  in  a  low- 
tone.  It  seemed  to  me  he  was  ad- 
dressing our  angel  child — begging 
her  to  pray  that  God  would  speedily 
call  him  to  dwell  for  ever  with  her 
in  his  blissful  presence.  The  thought 
made  me  shudder.  It  seemed  as  if 
I  had  at  that  moment  an  interior  re- 
velation. I  knew  that  was  Victor's 
prayer,  and  I  had  a  presentiment  it 
would  be  heard. 

From  that  day,  though  we  had  a 
thousand  reasons  to  consider  our- 
selves happy,  we  were  no  longer 
light-hearted  as  we  once  had  been. 


16 


Madame  Agnes. 


There  \*as  a  something  that  weighed 
on  our  minds  and  kept  us  anxious, 
and  empoisoned  all  our  joys.  Life 
seemed  unsatisfactory,  and  we  drew 
nearer  to  God.  We  were  constantly 
speaking  of  him  and  the  angel  who 


had  flown  from  us,  and  we  often  ap- 
proached the  sacraments  together. 
It  was  thus  that  God  was  secretly 
preparing  Victor  to  return  to  him, 
and  me  to  endure  so  terrible  a 
blow. 


CHAPTER  v. 


AN  UNEXPECTED   ASSAULT. 


No  man  was  ever  more  fond  of 
domestic  life  than  Victor.  The  hap- 
piest hours  of  the  day  were  those  we 
all  spent  together — he,  my  mother, 
my  young  sister,  and  myself — occu- 
pied in  some  useful  work,  but  often 
stopping  to  exchange  a  few  words. 
It  was  with  regret  Victor  sometimes 
left  us  at  such  hours  to  mingle  with 
the  world.  He  refused  all  invita- 
tions to  dinners,  soirees,  and  balls  as 
often  as  possible,  but  he  could  not 
always  do  so.  He  had  taken  the 
first  place — a  place  quite  exceptional 
— in  local  journalism,  and  it  was  im- 
possible for  him  to  decline  all  the 
advances  made  him.  Besides,  he 
wished,  as  was  natural  to  one  of  his 
profession,  to  ascertain  for  himself 
public  opinion  on  the  question  of  the 
day.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  dull  the 
evenings  seemed  when  he  was  away, 
or  how  anxious  I  was  till  he  returned. 
There  was  something  dreadful  about 
his  profession.  In  vain  he  resolved 
to  avoid  personalities;  they  were 
often  discovered  when  none  had  been 
intended.  If  he  was  fortunately  able 
to  keep  within  the  limits  he  had 
marked  out  for  himself,  and  confined 
himself  to  the  defence  of  justice,  mo- 
rality, and  religion,  he  found  these 
three  great  causes  had  furious  oppo- 
nents. Whoever  defended  them  in- 
curred the  ardent  ill-will  of  the  ene- 
mies of  all  good.  This  is  what  hap- 
pened to  Victor.  Their  secret  hatred 
burst  forth  on  an  occasion  of  but 
little  importance. 

A  renowned  preacher  of  the  South, 


worthy  in  every  respect  of  his  repu- 
tation, came  to  preach  at  the  cathe- 
dral during  Advent.  This  man,  as 
eloquent  as  he  was  good,  attacked 
the  vices  of  the  day  with  all  the  ardor 
of  an  apostle.  Many  of  the  young 
men  of  the  place  who  went  to  hear 
him  were  infuriated  at  the  boldness 
of  his  zeal.  Some  supposed  them- 
selves to  be  meant  in  the  portraits  he 
drew  of  vicious  men  in  a  manner  so 
forcible  and  with  such  striking 
imagery  as  to  make  his  hearers 
tremble.  At  the  close  of  one  of  these 
sermons,  there  was  some  disturbance 
in  the  body  of  the  church.  Threats 
were  uttered  aloud,  and  women 
treated  with  insult.  Victor,  indig- 
nant at  such  conduct,  had  the  cour- 
age to  rebuke  the  corrupt  young  men 
of  the  place.  Never  had  he  been 
more  happily  inspired,  and  never  had 
he  produced  sucii  an  effect.  The 
article  was  everywhere  read.  It  gave 
offence,  and  we  awaited  the  conse- 
quences. 

The  next  day  Victor  received  an 
invitation  to  a  large  ball  given  by  a 
wealthy  banker.  The  invitation  sur- 
prised him,  for  he  knew  the  banker 
was  a  liberal  with  but  little  sympathy 
for  the  priesthood  and  its  defenders. 
I  begged  Victor  to  decline  the  invi- 
tation politely.  I  feared  it  was  only 
a  pretext  to  offer  him  some  affront. 
He  gently  reassured  me  by  saying 
that,  though  M.  Beauvais  was  a  lib- 
eral, he  had  the  reputation  of  being  an 
honorable  man.  "  I  am  glad,"  added 
he,  "to  become  acquainted  with 


Madame  Agnes. 


those  who  frequent  the  banker's  salon. 
I  shall  probably  find  more  than  one 
Christian  among  them,"  as,  in  fact, 
often  happened. 

When  the  night  came,  Victor  went 
away,  leaving  me  quite  uneasy,  in 
spite  of  all  his  efforts  to  reassure  me. 
I  made  him  promise  to  return  at  an 
early  hour.  I  was  beginning  to  be 
anxious  towards  eleven,  when  all  at 
once  there  was  a  sound  of  hasty  foot- 
steps. I  sprang  to  the  door — I 
opened  it — it  was  he.  As  soon  as  he 
entered  the  room,  I  noticed  he  was 
extremely  pale.  He  vainly  endeav- 
ored to  appear  calm,  but  could  not 
conceal  the  agitation  that  over- 
powered him. 

"  Victor,"  I  cried,  "  something  has 
happened !" 

"  Yes,  but  not  much.  Somebody 
tried  to  frighten  me." 

"  Are  you  wounded  ?" 

"  No,  they  did  not  wish  to  take 
my  life." 

"  I  conjure  you  to  tell  me  frankly 
what  has  happened." 

"  Well,  here  are  the  facts :  I  had 
left  M.  Beauvais'  house,  where  I  was 
politely  received,  and  had  gone  two 
streets,  when  I  observed  three  men 
walking  swiftly  after  me  on  the 
Place.  They  seemed  well  dressed, 
which  removed  my  suspicions.  I 
turned  into  the  little  Rue  St.  Augus- 
tine. It ''is  dimly  lighted  in  the 
evening  and  almost  always  desert- 
ed." 

"  How  imprudent !" 

"That  is  true,  I  did  wrong.  I 
had  scarcely  gone  a  hundred  yards, 
before  the  three  men  overtook  me." 

"'Stop!'  exclaimed  one  of  them. 
I  stopped  to  ascertain  what  they 


wished.  The  same  voice  continued 
in  these  terms  :  '  How  much  do 
those  calotins  give  you  to  defend 
them  ?' 

"  '  I  have  only  one  word  to  say  in 
reply  to  your  insulting  question — I 
defend  my  own  principles,  above  all 
because  I  cherish  them  in  the  depths 
ot  my  soul.'  So  saying,  I  sought  to 
keep  on  my  way. 

"  One  of  them  detained  me.  '  Be- 
fore going  any  further,'  said  he  who 
seemed  to  be  the  spokesman,  'swear 
never  to  abuse  the  young  men  of  this 
town  again  !' 

"  '  I  attack  no  one  individually,'  I 
replied.  '  Am  I  forbidden  to  de- 
fend my  own  cause  because  it  is  not 
yours  ? — But  this  is  no  time  or  place 
for  such  an  interview.  It  should  be 
at  my  office  and  by  daylight.  Come 
to  see  me  to-morrovv,  and  I  will  an- 
swer your  questions.' 

"  The  three  men  were  so  wrapped 
up  in  their  bernouses  and  large  com- 
forters that  I  could  not  tell  who  they 
were.  I  thought  it  time  to  disen- 
gage myself  from  the  grasp  of  the 
on%that  held  me.  I  made  a  violent 
effort.  In  the  struggle,  my  cloak  fell 
off.  As  I  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  I  re- 
ceived several  blows.  I  then  called 
for  assistance.  Several  windows  in  the 
neighborhood  opened.  The  three 
cowards  disappeared.  As  you  see,  I 
am  neither  killed  nor  wounded.  On  the 
whole,  no  great  harm  has  been  done." 

My  whole  frame  trembled  during 
this  account.  When  it  was  ended,  I 
became  somewhat  calmer,  and,  pas- 
sionately throwing  my  arms  around 
Victor,  I  begged  him  to  promise  me 
solemnly  never  to  go  out  again  in  the. 
evening.  He  did  so  willingly. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
VICTOR  AT  THE   POINT  OF  DEATH. 


THE  next  morning  Victor  told  me    had  occurred.     He    therefore    went 
he  did  not  feel  any  effect  from  what     to  the  office  as  usual,  and   wrote  a 


IS 


Madame  Agnes. 


spirited  article,  in  which  he  made 
known  and  energetically  stigmatized 
the  base  proceedings  of  those  who 
had  attacked  him.  The  article  at- 
tracted particular  attention,  and  gave 
us  the  pleasant  satisfaction  of  realiz- 
ing to  what  a  degree  Victor  had  won 
the  good-will  of  upright  men.  On 
all  sides  they  came  that  very  day  to 
express  their  indignation  at  the  vio- 
lence used  against  him.  .  .  . 

We  should  neither  overestimate 
nor  decry  human  nature.  There  are 
certainly  a  multitude  of  base  men 
with  low  natures  and  vile  instincts. 
But  even  among  those  who  are  the 
farthest  from  the  truth  there  are 
some  souls  that  have  preserved  a  cer- 
tain uprightness  and  hearts  of  a  cer- 
tain elevation  for  whom  we  cannot 
help  feeling  mingled  admiration  and 
pity. 

That  same  evening  Victor  com- 
plained of  not  being  well,  but  kept 
saying  it  was  nothing  serious.  With- 
out asking  his  consent,  I  sent  for  a 
physician,  who  examined  him.  Vic- 
tor was  forced  to  acknowledge  he 
had  been  chilled  the  night  before. 
He  was  very  warm  when  he  left  M. 
Beauvais'  house,  and,  to  counteract 
the  effect  of  the  keen  north  wind,  he 
started  off  swiftly,  and  was  in  a  com- 
plete perspiration  when  overtaken  by 
his  assailants.  Stopped  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  street,  he  was  exposed  to 
the  cold  night  air,  which  was  of 
course  injurious.  What  was  still 
worse,  his  cloak  fell  off,  and  it  was 
several  minutes  before  he  recovered 
it. 

I  was  seized  with  terror  at  hearing 
these  details.  It  seemed  as  if  my 
poor  husband  had  just  pronounced 
his  own  death-warrant.  At  the  same 
time  a  horrible  feeling  sprang  up  in 
my  heart,  such  as  I  had  never  expe- 
rienced before.  I  was  frantic  with 
rage  and  hatred  against  those  who 
were  the  cause  of  this  fatal  chill.  I 


begged,  I  implored  Victor  and  the 
physician  to  promise  to  take  imme- 
diate steps  for  their  discovery,  that 
no  time  might  be  lost  in  bringing 
them  to  justice  in  order  to  receive 
the  penalty  they  deserved. 

"  Agnes,"  said  Victor  mildly — 
"  Agnes,  your  affection  for  me  mis- 
leads you.  I  no  longer  recognize 
my  good  Agnes." 

But  I  gave  no  heed  to  what  he 
said,  and  was  only  diverted  from  my 
hatred  by  the  care  I  was  obliged  to 
bestow  on  him.  In  twenty-four 
hours  my  poor  husband's  illness  had 
increased  to  such  a  degree  that  I  lost 
all  hope.  Poor  Victor  !  he  suffered 
terribly,  and  I  added  to  his  suffer- 
ings instead  of  alleviating  them !  I 
loved  him  too  much,  or  rather  with 
too  human  an  affection.  I  afflicted 
him  with  my  alternate  outbursts  of 
despair  and  anger. 

"  Live  without  you  !"  I  would  ex- 
claim— "  that  is  impossible  !  Oh  !  the 
monsters  who  have  killed  you,  if  they 
could  only  die  in  your  stead !  But 
they  shall  be  punished  and  held  up 
to  infamy  as  they  deserve !  If  there 
is  no  one  else  in  the  world  to  ferret 
them  out,  I  will  do  it  myself!" 

These  fits  of  excitement  caused 
Victor  so  much  sorrow  that  the  very 
remembrance  of  them  fills  me  with 
the  keenest  remorse — a  remorse  I 
have  reason  to  feel.  His  confessor, 
the  physician,  my  mother,  and  he 
himself  tried  in  vain  to  soothe  me. 
One  told  me  how  far  from  Christian 
my  conduct  was,  and  another  that  I 
deprived  my  husband  of  what  he 
needed  the  most — repose.  I  would 
not  listen  to  them.  I  was  beside 
myself. 

One  evening  I  was  sitting  alone 
beside  the  bed  of  my  poor  sick  one, 
and  was  abandoning  myself  anew  to 
my  unreasonable  anger,  when  Victoi 
took  my  hand  in  his,  and  said,  in  a 
tone  that  went  to  my  very  heart : 


Madame  Agnes. 


"  Agnes,  I  feel  very  weak.  Per- 
haps I  have  not  long  to  live.  I  beg 
you — I  conjure  you — to  spare  me  the 
cruel  sorrow  of  having  my  last  hours 
embittered  by  a  want  of  resignation 
I  was  far  from  expecting  of  you ! 
Of  all  my  sufferings,  this  is  the' great- 
est— and  certainly  that  to  which  I 
can  resign  myself  the  least.  What ! 
my  dear  Agnes,  do  you,  at  the  very 
moment  of  my  leaving  you,  lay  aside 
the  most  precious  title  you  have  in 
my  eyes — that  of  a  Christian  woman, 
a  woman  of  piety  and  fortitude — 
which  transcends  all  others  ?  .  .  . 
What !  are  you  unable  to  submit  to 
the  will  of  God  !  Because  his  de- 
signs do  not  accord  with  your  views, 
you  dare  say  that  God  no  longer 
loves  you — that  he  is  cruel !  .  .  . 
My  dear,  do  you  set  up  your  judg- 
ment against  that  of  God  ?  Do  you 
refuse  him  the  sacrifice  of  my  life 
and  of  your  enmity  ?  .  .  .  Does  not 
my  life  belong  to  him  ?  .  .  .  And 
is  not  your  enmity  unchristian  ?  .  .  . 
Did  they  who  have  reduced  me  to 
this  condition  intend  doing  me  such 
an  injury  ?  .  .  .  I  thinK  not.  Could 
they  have  done  me  the  least  harm  if 
God  had  not  permitted  them  ?  .  .  . 
No  matter  at  what  moment  the  fatal 
blow  falls  on  us.  no  matter  whence 
it  comes,  it  only  strikes  us  at  the 
time  and  in  the  manner  permitted  by 
God. — Agnes,  kneel  here  beside  me, 
and  repeat  the  words  I  am  about  to 
utter.  Repeat  them  with  your  lips 
and  with  your  whole  heart,  whatever 
it  may  cost  you.  It  is  my  wish.  It 
is  essential  for  your  own  peace  of 
mind,  and  also  for  mine.  Agnes, 
my  dear  love,  we  have  prayed  a 
thousand  times  together  and  with 


hearts  so  truly  united  !  Now  that  you 
see  me  ill,  perhaps  dying  .  .  .  can  you 
refuse  me  the  supreme  joy  of  once 
more  uniting  my  soul  with  yours  be- 
fore God  in  the  same  prayer  ?"  .  .  . 

I  burst  into  tears,  and  obeyed. 

"  O  my  God  !"  he  cried,  "  what- 
ever thou  doest  is  well  done.  No- 
thing can  tempt  me  to  doubt  thy 
goodness.  Is  not  thy  loving-kind- 
ness often  the  greatest  when  it  seems 
disguised  the  most  ?  .  .  .  I  firmly  be- 
lieve so,  and  I  forgive  all  those  who 
have  tried  to  injure  me.  I  pray  thee 
to  convert  them.  As  for  me,  I  beg 
thee,  O  my  God,  to  deal  with  me  as 
thou  judgest  most  for  thy  glory  and 
for  my  good." 

Victor  uttered  these  words  with  so 
much  fervor  and  emotion  that  I  was 
stirred  to  the  depths  of  my  soul.  A 
complete  change  took  place  within 
me  which  I  attributed  to  my  dear 
husband's  prayers.  My  eyes,  hitherto 
tearless,  now  overflowed.  My  an- 
ger all  at  once  disappeared.  A  pro- 
found sadness  alone  remained,  min- 
gled with  resignation.  .  .  . 

Victor's  life  continued  in  danger 
some  days  longer.  Then — oh  !  what 
happiness ! — when  I  had  made  the 
sacrifice  and  bowed  submissively  to 
the  divine  will,  the  physician  all  at 
once  revived  my  hopes.  To  com- 
prehend the  joy  with  which  my  heart 
overflowed  at  hearing  that  perhaps 
my  husband  might  be  restored  to 
life,  you  must,  like  me,  pass  through 
long  hours  of  bitterness  in  which  you 
repeat,  with  your  eyes  fastened  on 
your  loved  one  :  "  A  few  hours,  and 
I  shall  behold  him  no  more !" 

A  weeV  after,  Louis  was  convales- 
cent. 


CHAPTER    VII. 
A   PROVIDENTIAL   EVENT. 


VICTOR  and  I  then  entered  upon  a     are  but  few  instances.     I  felt  from 
singular  life  of  which  I  think  there     the  first  that  his  convalescence  was 


20 


Madame  Agnes. 


deceptive,  and  the  physician  secretly 
told  him  so.  We  both  felt  that  God 
allowed  us  to  pass  a  few  more  months 
together,  but  no  longer.  The  disease 
was  checked,  but  it  still  hung  about 
my  dear  one.  It  assumed  a  new 
form,  and  changed  into  a  slow  mal- 
ady that  was  surely  accomplishing 
its  work.  As  frequently  happens  in 
such  complaints,  Victor  was  but  par- 
tially cured  of  inflammation  of  the 
lungs,  and  now  became  consumptive. 

A  great  poet  says  that  no  language, 
however  perfect, 'can  express  all  the 
thoughts,  all  the  emotions,  that  spring 
up  in  the  soul.*  This  is  true.  I 
have  often  felt  it,  and  now  realize  it 
more  than  ever.  Ten  months  elaps- 
ed between  Victor's  amelioration  and 
his  death — months  memorable  for 
great  suffering,  but  which  have  left 
me  many  delightful,  though  melan- 
choly, remembrances.  I  wish  I  could 
impart  these  recollections  to  you.  I 
hardly  dare  attempt  it,  so  conscious 
am  I  of  my  inability  to  do  them  jus- 
tice. 

How,  indeed,  could  I  depict  the 
love,  stronger  than  ever,  that  bound 
me  to  my  husband,  spared  in  so  un- 
hoped-for a  manner,  though  but  for 
a  brief  period — so  brief  that  I  could 
almost  count  the  hours  ?  How 
make  you  understand  how  elevated, 
superhuman,  consoling,  and  yet  sor- 
rowful, were  our  conversations  ? 
How  many  times  Victor  said  to  me : 
"  Agnes,  how  merciful  the  good  God 
is !  See,  he  could  have  recalled  me 
to  himself  at  once,  but  still  leaves 
me  with  you  a  few  months  longer. 
Oh !  how  heartily  I  desire  to  profit 
by  this  time  in  order  to  prepare  for 
death,  though  I  fear  it  not!  I  do 


*  "  That  which  is  most  divine  in  the  heart  of 
m«in  never  finds  utterance  for  want  of  words  to 
express  it.  The  soul  is  infinite  [this  is  saying 
too  much :  it  is  one  thing  to  be  infinite,  and  an- 
other to  have  a  sense  of  the  infinite],  and  lan- 
guage consists  only  of  a  limited  number  of  signs 
perfected  by  use  as  a  means  of  communication 
amonjj;  the  vulgar."— Lamartine,  Preface  des 
Pr  em  tires  Meditations. 


not  wish  to  spend  one  of  these  last 
hours  in  vain.  I  wish  to  do  all  the 
good  in  my  power,  and  love  you  bet- 
ter and  better  as  the  blessed  do  in 
heaven.  Oh!  how  sweet  it  will  be 
to  enter  upon  that  perfect  love 
abovef  which  we  have  imagined,  and 
had  a  foretaste  of,  here  below — what 
do  I  say  ? — a  thousand  times  sweeter, 
more  perfect.  Its  enjoyment  will  be 
without  any  alloy  of  fear  or  sadness, 
for  in  loving,  we  shall  have  a  right  to 
say :  '  It  is  for  ever !'  " 

But  of  all  the  thoughts  that  occu- 
pied Victor's  mind  at  that  period, 
that  which  was  most  constantly  in 
his  heart  he  expressed  in  these  sim- 
ple but  significant  words:  to  do  all 
the  goon  possible  !  Penetrated  w.th 
this  desire,  he  resumed  his  duties  at 
the  Journal  office  as  soon  as  he  was 
able.  His  talents  had  developed 
under  the  influence  of  suffering. 
Every  one  remarked  it.  But  contro- 
versy fatigued  him,  and  he  was  not 
able  to  go  out  every  day.  He  was, 
therefore,  provided  with  an  assistant 
— a  young  man  of  ability,  to  whom  he 
could  transfer  most  of  the  labor.  He 
took  pleasure  in  training  him  for  tne 
work,  saying  to  himself:  "He  will 
be  my  successor.  I  shall  still  live  in 
him,  and  have  some  part  in  the  good 
he  will  do." 

A  part  of  tire  day,  therefore,  re- 
mained unoccupied.  He  employed 
these  hours  in  writing  a  small  work — 
a  simple,  touching  book,  which  was 
published  a  short  time  before  his 
death,  and  is  still  doing,  to  my  know- 
ledge, much  good  among  the  people. 

Training  his  successor  and  pub- 
lishing a  useful  book  were  two  good 
acts  he  took  pleasure  in,  but,  so  great 
was  his  ardor  for  benefiting  others, 
that  they  did  not  suffice.  He  earn- 
estly longed  for  some  new  opportun- 
ity of  testifying  to  God  how  desirous 
he  was  of  making  a  holy  use  of  the 
last  moments  of  his  life.  "  And  yet," 
he  added,  "  I  acknowledge  this  work 


Madame  Agues. 


21 


is  perhaps  presumptuous.  It  is  ask- 
ing a  special  grace  from  God  of 
which  I  am  not  worthy."  But  God 
granted  him  this  longed-for  opportu- 
nity of  devoting  himself  to  his  glory, 
and  he  embraced  it  with  a  heroism 
that  won  universal  admiration. 

Spring  returned,  and  we  fell  into 
the  habit  of  going  from  time  to  time 
to  pass  a  day  in  the  country  with 
Jeanne,  my  old  nurse.  Jeanne  was 
one  of  those  friends  of  a  lower  con- 
dition whom  we  often  love  the  most. 
There  is  no  jealousy  in  such  a  friend- 
ship to  disturb  the  complete  union 
of  soul.  It  is  mingled  with  a  sweet 
sense  of  protection  on  one  side,  and 
of  gratitude  on  the  other — which  is 
still  sweeter. 

We  went  there  in  the  morning, 
walked  around  awhile,  then  break- 
fasted and  resumed  our  walk. 
Jeanne  lived  at  St.  Saturnin,  six  kilo- 
metres from  town.  It  is  a  charming 
place,  as  you  are  aware.  Near  the 
village  flows  a  stream  bordered  by 
poplars  and  willows  that  overshadow 
the  deep  but  limpid  waters.  One 
morning  we  were  walking  in  the 
broad  meadow  beneath  the  shade  of 
these  trees,  when  suddenly  we  saw  a 
young  man  on  the  opposite  shore, 
not  six  rods  off,  throw  himself  into 
the  stream.  Victor  still  retained  a 
part  of  his  natural  vigor.  Before  I 
thought  of  preventing  him,  he 
sprang  forward,  and,  seeing  that  the 
man  who  had  precipitated  himself 
into  the  water  did  not  rise  to  the  sur- 
face, jumped  into  the  river,  swam 
around  some  time,  and  finally  suc- 
ceeded in  bringing  the  stranger  to 
shore.  I  was  wild  with  anxiety  and 
grief.  Without  allowing  him  to  stop 
to  attend  to  the  person  he  had  res- 
cued, I  forced  him  to  return  to 
Jeanne's  in  order  to  change  his  cloth- 
ing. He  gave  orders  for  some  one 
to  hasten  to  the  assistance  of  the 


poor  man  for  whom  he  had  so  cour- 
ageously exposed  his  life.  Several 
persons  hastily  left  their  work,  and  in 
a  short  time  returned  with  the  man 
who  had  tried  to  drown  himself. 
He  was  still  agitated,  but  had  recov- 
ered the  complete  use  of  his  facul- 
ties. At  the  sight  of  my  husband  in 
the  garb  of  a  peasant,  he  at  once  com- 
prehended to  whom  he  owed  his  life.' 
He  was  seized  with  a  strange  tremor ; 
he  staggered,  and  seemed  on  the 
point  of  fainting.  .  Victor  made  every 
effort  to  bring  him  to  himself,  and  at 
length  succeeded.  As  soon  as  this 
young  gentleman,  who  was  clad  with 
uncommon  elegance,  recovered  his 
strength  and  self-possession,  he  seized 
my  husband's  hand  and  kissed  it 
with  a  respect  that  excited  strange 
suspicions  in  my  mind.  Victor  ap- 
peared to  know  him,  but  I  did  not 
remember  ever  having  seen  him  be- 
fore. Why  had  he  thrown  himself 
into  the  river?  To  drown  himself, 
of  course. . .  .  Why,  then,  did  he  testify 
so  much  gratitude  .and  respect  for 
one  who  had  hindered  him  from  ex- 
ecuting his  project?  .  .  . 

He  requested,  in  a  faint,  supplicat- 
ing tone,  to  be  left  alone  with  Vic- 
tor. The  rest  of  us  withdrew  into 
the  garden.  At  our  return,  Victor 
whispered  to  me  :  "  This  gentleman  is 
Louis  Beauvais,  the  banker's  oldest 
son.  He  himself  will  relate  his  his- 
tory to  you  after  our  return  home." 

The  carriage  was  not  to  come  for 
us  till  four  o'clock.  We  therefore 
passed  several  hours  together  at 
Jeanne's.  Victor  devoted  himself  to 
Louis  with  an  attention  that  touched 
me  inexpressibly.  As  to  Louis,  a 
son  could  not  have  shown  more  af- 
fection to  the  best  of  fathers  than  he 
to  Victor. 

The  hour  of  our  departure  came  at 
last.  We  entered  the  carriage,  and 
were  all  three  at  home  in  half  an  hour. 


22 


Madame  Agues. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


CONFESSION. 


AT  our  return,  we  found  my  mother 
had  prepared  the  dinner  as  usual  on 
the  days  we  went  into  the  country. 
We  joyfully  seated  ourselves  at  the 
table.  What  is  more  delightful  than 
a  family  dinner  ?  And  we  were  all 
united.  Louis  was  also  in  our  midst. 
Victor  was  uncommonly  lively  that 
evening.  His  face,  so  open,  intelli- 
gent, and  kind,  was  radiant.  I  had 
never  seen  him  so  social  and  witty. 
His  animation  enlivened  us  all — we 
loved  him  so  much !  Excellent 
man  !  what  made  him  so  happy  was 
the  remembrance  of  the  good  deed 
he  had  done  at  the  peril  of  his  life. 
I  asked  him  more  than  twenty  times 
that  evening  if  he  felt  any  worse,  and 
if  it  were  not  advisable  to  send  for  a 
physician.  He  invariably  replied 
that  >he  felt  as  well  as  the  day  before, 
and  even  better.  But  his  cough 
grew  worse  from  that  time,  and 
caused  me  serious  alarm.  During 
dinner  we  conversed  on  general  sub- 
jects, and  afterwards  went  to  the 
salon.  Victor  installed  himself  be- 
side the  blazing  fire  which  I  always 
had  made  for  him  in  the  evening. 
My  mother  and  sister  went  up  to 
.their  own  apartments.  We  were 
thus  left  alone  with  M.  Louis  Beau- 
vais.  He  turned  towards  Victor  with 
a  look  full  of  respect  and  affection, 
and  I  observed  with  astonishment  that 
tears  were  streaming  from  his  eyes. 

"  Madame,"  said  he  to  me,  "  I 
must  appear  strangely  to  you.  Ah  ! 
that  is  not  the  worst  of  it.  I  am  a 
great  sinner." 

Victor  tried  to  stop  him. 


"  No,"  said  he ;  "I  will  not  keep 
silence.  Mme.  Barnier  must  know 
everything,  as  well  as  you,  noble- 
hearted  man,  whom  I  dare  not  call 
my  friend :  I  feel  too  unworthy." 

He  seated  himself,  and,  sadly  gaz- 
ing into  the  fire,  began  his  story  in  a 
tone  as  grave  and  sorrowful  as  if  he 
were  making  a  solemn  avowal  of  his 
faults  before  dying : 

Ten  years  ago,  said  he,  I  was 
a  Christian,  not  only  in  name,  but  in 
heart  and  soul.  My  mother,  a  pious, 
energetic  woman,  such  as  we  do  not 
see  in  our  day,  brought  me  up  with 
extreme  care,  and  I  did  my  utmost 
to  correspond  to  her  efforts.  It  is 
so  easy  and  delightful  to  practise 
one's  religion  when  one  has  faith,  and 
feels  that  his  endeavors  are  at  once 
pleasing  to  a  mother  and  to  God! 
My  other  studies  over,  I  became  a 
candidate  for  the  Polytechnic  School, 
but  was  not  successful  in  my  appli- 
cation. I  then  entered  another,  in 
order  to  learn  civil  engineering.  By 
the  end  of  a  year,  I  had  given  up  all 
my  pious  habits  through  want  of 
moral  courage.  My  principles,  how- 
ever, remained  firm  enough  to  con- 
demn me  and  nil  me  with  remorse, 
but  they  were  incapable  of  restrain- 
ing one  who  had  imbibed  a  taste  for 
error.  Even  my  mother's  death  and 
her  last  words,  though  they  affected 
me,  did  not  bring  me  to  a  sense  of 
duty.  A  short  time  after  I  complet- 
ed my  studies  in  civil  engineering,  my 
father  gave  me  possession  of  what  1 
inherited  from  my  mother,  and  asked 
what  coirrse  I  intended  to  pursue. 


Madame  Agnes. 


"  Remain  at  home,"  I  replied,  "and 
work  under  the  direction  of  M. 
C ,"  an  architect  of  the  depart- 
ment, and  a  friend  of  the  family.  My 
father  gave  his  consent  to  this. 

Left  to  myself,  and  master  of  my 
time  and  property,  I  made  no  delay 
in  commencing  a  life  of  dissipation 
and  pleasure.  My  father  was,  above 
all  things,  a  man  of  forethought  and 
calculation,  and  my  conduct  disgust- 
ed him.  We  had  several  painful 
disputes,  and  at  last  he  declared,  to 
use  his  own  expressive  language,  he 
would  give  up  the  reins,  and  cease 
to  reproach  me,  but  I  must  not 
thenceforth  expect  of  him  the  least 
advice  or  even  aid,  if  I  needed  it. 
He  then  centred  all  his  affections 
on  my  brother  and  sister.  As  for 
me,  I  had  begun  by  being  idle  and 
extravagant :  I  soon  became  openly 
irreligious.  My  religious  principles 
were  a  restraint,  and  I  determined  to 
throw  them  aside.  I  thought  this 
would  be  easy.  And  I  did  prove 
myself  uncommonly  impious  when 
the  preacher  we  had  some  months 
ago  told  us  so  many  plain,  whole- 
some truths.  I  was  not  one  of  those 
guilty  of  disorderly  conduct,  whom 
all  respectable  people  must  con- 
demn ;  but — the  acknowledgment  is 
due  you — I  approved  of  it,  contemp- 
tible and  wicked  as  it  was.  My  con- 
science was  now  roused,  and  remorse 
filled  my  soul  with  secret  anger. 

My  mother  being  dead,  there  was 
no  longer  any  one  at  home  to  speak 
to  me  of  religious  things.  My  father 
is  an  honorable,  upright  man,  and  at- 
tentive to  his  business,  but  as  regard- 
less of  another  world  as  if  there  were 
none.  My  young  brother  is  pious  to 
a  certain  degree,  I  suppose,  but  he  is 
timid  and  reserved.  Only  my  sister 
remains.  Aline  left  boarding-school 
about  six  months  ago.  She  is  nearly 
ten  years  younger  than  I,  and  bears 
a  striking  resemblance  to  my  mother. 


She  has  the  same  kindness  of  heart 
and  the  same  tone  of  piety,  at  once 
fervent  and  rational,  which  I  always 
loved  and  admired  in  my  mother.  I 
had  been  separated  from  my  sister 
many  years,  and  when  I  met  her 
again,  I  was  struck,  with  this  resem- 
blance, and  at  once  conceived  so 
much  affection  and  respect  for  her  as 
to  astonish  myself. 

As  soon  as  Aline  returned  home, 
the  x  appearance  of  everything 
changed :  the  house  became  more 
attractive.  I  certainly  do  not  wish 
to  impute  any  blame  to  my  father — 
I  love  and  respect  him  too  much  for 
that — but  you  know  as  well  as  I  that 
a  house  is  not  what  it  should  be  that 
has  no  woman  to  preside  over  it. 
An  Arabian  poet  says  the  mistress  of 
a  house  is  its  soul,  and  he  is  right. 
After  my  mother's  death,  the  house 
became  gloomy,  but  there  was  a 
marked  change  when  Aline  returned. 
It  seemed  as  if  my  mother  had  come 
back  after  a  long  absence  to  diffuse 
once  more  around  her  cheerfulness, 
order,  and  piety. 

But  the  superintendence  of  the 
household  affairs,  and  her  obligations 
to  society,  did  not  wholly  fill  up 
Aline's  time.  Like  her  whose  living 
image  she  was,  she  was  eager  to  ex- 
tend her  knowledge.  Before  her  re- 
turn, my  father  had  subscribed  for 
that  wretched  journal  which  is  the 
delight  of  the  unbeliever,  or  those 
who  wish  to  pass  as  such.  Aline 
sometimes  read  it,  but  she  disliked  it, 
as  you  may  suppose.  She  imparted 
her  impressions  to  me,  but  I  did  not 
conceal  from  her  my  sympathy  with 
its  irreligious  views. 

"  Well,  I  do  not  agree  with  it  in 
the  least,"  said  she ;  "  and,  as  I  like  to 
know  what  is  going  on,  I  wish  I 
could  subscribe  for  M.  Barnier's  pa- 
per. Mme.  C has  lent  it  to  me  for 

some  time.  It  is  an  able,  thoughtful 
journal,  and  edited  by  a  sincere  Ca 


Madame  Agnes. 


tholic.  That  is  the  kind  of  a  news- 
paper that  suits  me." 

"  Then,  order  it  to  be  sent  you." 

"That  would  be  ridiculous.  A 
•young  girl  cannot  subscribe  for  a 
newspaper." 

"  I  see  no  other  way  of  having  it." 

"  Excuse  me,  there  is.  If  you 
were  obliging,  you  would  see  the  way 
at  once." 

"  Arrd  subscribe  for  you  !  .  .  .  I 
subscribe  for  a  journal  de  sacristie  ? 
.  .  .  That  would  be  going  rather 
too  far;  I  should  be  laughed  at." 

"  You  must  have  publicly  compro- 
mised yourself,  then,  to  fear  making 
people  talk  by  subscribing  for  a  re- 
spectable paper."  .  .  . 

The  cut  was  well  aimed.  I  red- 
dened, but  made  no  reply,  and  went 
away.  That  night  I  subscribed  for 
your  paper,  and  received  my  first 
number.  Of  course  I  opened  it  at 
once,  out  of  perverse  curiosity.  I 
should  have  been  overjoyed  to  find  a 
single  flaw  in  it. 

A  short  time  after  this,  the  inci- 
dent at  the  cathedral  occurred.  As 
I  have  already  told  you,  I  was  not 
among  those  who  made  a  disturb- 
ance at  the  church  door,  but  I  was 
with  them  in  heart.  Pere  Laurent 
was  repulsive  to  me,  as  well  as  to 
most  of  those  who  displayed  their 
anger  in  so  reprehensible  a  manner. 
He  was  everywhere  the  topic  of  con- 
versation. At  home,  my  sister,  who 
never  lost  one  of  his  sermons,  an- 
noyed me  with  his  praises.  Above 
all,  she  irritated  me  by  repeating  his 
very  words — words  that  seemed  cho- 
sen expressly  to  disturb  me  and  force 
me  to  reflect. 

The  day  after  that  atrocious  mani- 
festation, I  eagerly  opened  your  jour- 
nal. I  was  sure  you  would  speak  of 
the  outbreak  of  the  previous  day, 
and  wished  to  see  how  far  you  would 
condemn  it.  The  article  surpassed 
my  expectations.  You  showed 


yourself  more  courageous  than  ever. 
Never  had  you  written  anything  that 
so  directly  hit  my  case.  You  made 
use  of  certain  phrases  that  reminded 
me  of  my  shameful  course,  my  base 
inclinations,  and  my  secret  remorse, 
and  in  so  forcible  a  manner  that  the 
very  perusal  made  me  tremble  with 
anger.  That  night,  at  our  club — that 
well-known  circle  of  young  men  de- 
void of  reason,  and  so  many  men  of 
riper  years  even  more  thoughtless — 
we  had  a  great  deal  to  say  about  the 
occurrence  of  the  previous  day,  and 
your  article  of  that  morning.  There 
was  a  general  indignation  against  the 
preacher,  and  that  excited  by  what 
you  had  written  was  still  stronger. 

One  of  the  habitues  of  the  club — 
one  of  those  men  who  assume  the 
right  of  imposing  their  opinions  on 
others  about  every  subject — seriously 
declared  he  had  made  a  very  impor- 
tant discovery :  the  clerical  party 
wished  to  overrule  the  city,  and  assert 
its  adverse  authority  as  in  the  fear- 
ful times  of  the  middle  ages ;  but, 
however  well  contrived  the  plot 
might  be,  it  had  not  escaped  the  sa- 
gacious eye  of  the  speaker.  The 
Conference  of  S.  Vincent  de  Paul, 
more  flourishing  than  ever;  the  new 
development  given  to  the  journal  you 
edit ;  the  arrival  of  an  eloquent 
preacher — were  they  not  all  so  many 
signs  that  ought  to  arouse  us  to  the 
imminence  and  extent  of  the  danger  ? 

The  simplest  and  worst  members 
of  the  club  allowed  themselves  to 
be  influenced  by  this  absurd  decla- 
mation. I  was,  I  confess,  of  the 
number.  Others  shrugged  their 
shoulders.  The  orator  perceived  it. 

"  Ah  !  you  smile,  messieurs ;  you 
think  I  exaggerate !  In  a  year  you 
will  confess  I  was  right,  but  then  it 
will  be  too  late !  Your  wives  will 
have  become  devotees,  the  very 
thought  of  whose  bigotry  is  enough 
to  make  anybody  shudder;  your 


Madame  Agnes. 


daughters  will  only  aspire  to  the  hap- 
piness of  entering  a  convent ;  the 
theatres  will  be  closed  for  want  of 
patronage ;  and,  if  any  one  wishes  an 
office,  it  will  only  be  obtained  by 
presenting  a  certificate  of  confession. 
Allez  /  allez  !  when  that  black-robed 
tribe  undertakes  any  scheme,  it 
knows  how  to  bring  it  about.  In- 
stead of  shrugging  your  shoulders 
when  I  reveal  what  is  going  on,  you 
would  do  better  to  take  proper  pre- 
cautions. It  is  high  time." 

A  young  fop  in  the  assembly,  the 
head  clerk  of  a  notary,  notorious  for 
his  volubility,  his  shallowness,  and 
his  assurance,  rose  and  took  up  the 
thread  of  discourse  in  his  turn : 

"  I  agree  with  what  M.  Simon  has 
just  said.  We  must  consider  the 
means  of  utterly  routing  this  dark 
race.  The  shortest  course  would  be 
to  attack  their  leader.  I  will  take 
that  on  myself.  Barnier  shall  hear 
from  me." 

"  No  rashness  !"  was  the  exclama- 
tion on  all  sides.  "  We  must  beware 
of  making  a  martyr  of  him  !" 

"  What  course  shall  we  ta4ce,  then  ?" 
asked  some  of  the  party. 

"  Intimidate  him,"  said  a  voice. 
"  Write  him  a  letter  of  warning  of  so 
serious  a  character  as  to  make  him 
desist." 

."That  is  also  a  bad  plan,"  objected 
M.  Simon.  "  Anonymous  letters  are 
treated  with  contempt,  or  are  laid 
before  the  public.  In  either  case,  the 
effect  would  be  unfavorable  to  us." 

The  young  fop  who  had  begun 
the  subject  now  resumed  : 

"  M.  Simon,  who  has  so  clairvoy- 
ant an  eye  with  respect  to  danger, 
ought  himself  to  suggest  some  way 
of  bringing  Barnier  to  reason." 

M.  Simon  assumed  a  solemn  air : 
•'  I  only  know  of  one  way,  but  that 
is  a  good  one.  We  must  bribe  him, 
not  to  withdraw  from  the  paper — 
that  would  be  a  false  step,  for  an- 


other would  take  his  place,  and  con- 
tinue to  annoy  us — but  to  induce 
him,  in  consideration  of  a  certain 
sum,  to  wage  henceforth  only  an 
apparent  war  on  us.  That  is  the 
best  thing  to  do." 

"  Well,"  replied  the  young  fop,  "  it 
is  hardly  worth  while  to  criticise 
others,  and  then  propose  something 
not  half  so  good.  Barnier  is  not  to 
be  bribed." 

"  Why  not  ?"  asked  M.  Simon. 

"  Because  a  man  whose  opinions 
are  the  result  of  conviction  can  never 
be  bought.  He  fights  for  his  flag, 
and  is  not  much  concerned  about 
anything  else." 

"  Convictions  !  —  flag  !  —  disinter- 
estedness, indeed !"  retorted  M.  Si- 
mon, with  a  gesture  of  supreme  con- 
tempt. 

It  was  in  vain  to  say  that  most  of 
us  had  carefully  observed  you,  and 
were  not  mistaken  as  to  your  charac- 
ter. We  were  nearly  all  of  the 
clerk's  opinion.  For  once  in  his  life, 
the  fellow  had  a  correct  notion.  We 
then  separated  without  coming  to  any 
decision,  but  each  one  promised  to 
think  of  some  means  of  bringing  you 
to  reason,  as  we  expressed  it.  I 
dwelt  on  the  subject  the  whole  even- 
ing, and  was  still  thinking  of  it  the 
next  day  when  I  took  my  place 
among  the  family  at  the  dinner-table. 

Aline  was  at  that  time  greatly  in- 
terested in  the  soiree  to  which  you 
were  afterwards  invited,  and  the  pre- 
liminaries were  discussed  at  table. 
To  my  great  astonishment,  she  pro- 
posed to  place  your  name  on  the  list 
of  invitations.  This  proposition 
made  me  angry,  and  I  flatly  declared 
it  absurd.  I  was  sure  my  father 
would  make  a  similar  reply.  I  had 
no  idea  he  would  open  the  doors  of 
his  salon  to  you,  for  I  knew  there 
was  no  similarity  of  opinion  between 
you.  The  result  was  precisely  con- 
trary to  my  expectations.  Was  my 


26 


Madame  Agnes. 


father  desirous  of  gratifying  Aline  ? 
Or  did  he  wish  to  seize  an  opportu- 
nity of  showing  how  little  value  he 
attached  to  my  opinion  ?  I  know 
not.  But  he  allowed  me  to  finish 
what  I  had  to  say,  and  then  said,  in 
a  dry  tone  : 

"  Aline,  send  M.  Barnier  an  invita- 
tion. It  is  my  wish." 

I  was  confounded.  In  my  fury,  I 
inwardly  swore  to  be  revenged. 
The  means  of  intimidating  you, 
which  the  members  of  the  club  had 
not  been  able  to  find  without  com- 
promising themselves,  I  thought  I 
had  discovered  myself  the  night  be- 
fore. I  communicated  my  plan  to 
two  of  my  friends  whose  names  I 
will  not  give.  They  declared  it  ex- 
cellent, and  promised  to  second  me. 

What  took  place  you  know,  but  I 
will  give  you  some  details  impossible 
for  you  to  have  ascertained.  I  did 
not  attend  the  soiree,  but  one  of  my 
accomplices  was  there  to  keep  me  in- 
formed of  your  movements.  When 
you  were  ready  to  leave,  he  came  to 
my  room  to  notify  me.  It  took  only 
a  moment  to  disguise  ourselves.  We 
went  out  by  a  private  door,  and 
dogged  your  steps.  Ah!  my  dear 
friend,  what  infamous  behavior! 
What  had  you  done  to  me  that  I 
should  thus  dare  violate  in  your  per- 
son the  laws  of  hospitality  which 
even  savages  respect  ? 

At  this  revelation,  I  turned  pale. 
M.  Louis  Beauvais  perceived  it. 

"  Is  not  such  an  act  unpardonable, 
madame  ?"  said  he.  "  And  do  you 
not  look  upon  me  as  worthy  only  of 
your  contempt  and  hatred?" 

"  I  have  forgiven  those  who  com- 
mitted this  wrong,  whoever  they 
might  be,"  I  replied.  "  Now  I  know 
it  was  you,  and  see  how  fully  you  re- 
pent of  it,  I  forgive  you  even  more 
willingly." 

Thank  you,  madame,  said  he ; 
but  let  me  ssaure  you  that,  culpable 


as  my  intentions  were,  they  were  less 
so  than  they  must  have  seemed  to  you. 
We  were  desirous  of  intimidating  M. 
Barnier,  and  making  him  believe  he 
exposed  himself  to  constant  serious 
danger  by  the  boldness  of  the  course 
he  had  taken.  WTe  did  not — I  mis- 
take— I  did  not  intend  to  show  any 
physical  violence,  for  that  I  consid- 
ered base  and  criminal.  I  was  in- 
dignant when  I  saw  one  of  our  num- 
ber strike  him..  I  have  ever  since  re- 
garded that  young  man  with  pro- 
found contempt.  I  had  more  than 
one  fit  of  remorse  that  night.  The 
next  morning,  Aline,  after  accosting 
me,  said: 

"  You  know  what  happened  to  M. 
Barnier  last  night  after  leaving  us. 
It  is  infamous !  It  must  have  been  a 
plot.  I  am  sure  you  know  the  guilty 
authors!  Who  are  they?  They 
ought  to  be  punished." 

"  How  should  I  know  them  ?"  I 
exclaimed  angrily. 

"  You  know  them  only  too  well," 
said  Aline,  regarding  me  with  an  air 
of  severity  ;.,.**  but  you  are 
not  willing  to  betray  your  friends. 
.  .  .  What  friends !" 

I  endeavored  to  appear  uncon- 
cerned. She  continued  looking  at 
me  with  a  steadiness  that  made  me 
shiver. 

"  Do  not  add  to  my  distress,"  said 
she.  "  Do  not  lay  aside  the  only 
virtue  you  have  left,  my  poor  bro- 
ther— your  customary  frankness  !  I 
understand  it  all,  and  know  what  I 
ought  to  say  to  you,  but  words  fail 
me.  Ah !  if  our  poor  mother  were 
still  alive !"  .  .  . 

Aline  went  away  without  another 
word.  As  for  me,  I  remained  mo- 
tionless and  silent  for  some  moments, 
by  turns  filled  with  shame,  remorse, 
and  anger.  ...  It  would  seem  as  if 
so  grave  an  occurrence  should  have 
led  me  to  serious  reflection.  I  felt  in- 
clined to  it  at  first,  but  resisted  the 


Madame  Agnes. 


inclination.  I  found  excuses  for  my- 
self, and  soon  thought  no  more  of  it. 

I  continued,  therefore,  to  live  as  I 
had  for  five  years,  one  pleasure  suc- 
ceeding another,  and  spending  my 
property  without  reflecting  what  I 
should  do  hereafter.  But  the  day 
was  at  hand  when  J  found  myself  in 
a  critical  position  in  consequence  of 
my  prodigality. 

When  my  father,  in  order  to  avert 
cause  for  contention,  put  me  in  pos- 
session of  my  mother's  property,  I  at 
once  took  my  papers  to  a  man  in 
whom  I  placed  entire  confidence.  I 
did  this  in  order  to  throw  off  all  care. 
He  had  been  for  a  long  time  my  fa- 
ther's cashier.  He  was  and  is  hon- 
esty itself. 

"  F.  Martin,"  said  I,  "  here  is 
all  I  possess.  It  will  be  a  care  for 
me  to  keep  these  papers  and  collect 
my  income.  Do  me  the  favor  to 
take'  charge  of  my  property." 

F.  Martin  was  confused  and  grati- 
fied at  such  a  proof  of  confidence. 
But  his  pleasure  was  somewhat  mod- 
ified when  I  added  the  following 
words : 

"  F.  Martin,  I  attach  one  con- 
dition to  this  arrangement :  you  are 
not  to  take  advantage  of  it  to  ser- 
monize me.  I  now  tell  you,  with  a 
frankness  that  will  preclude  all  sur- 
prise, I  wish  to  amuse  myself.  .  .  . 
To  what  degree,  or  how  long,  I  can- 
not say,  but  such  is  my  present  in- 
tention, that  is  certain." 

"  O  M.  Louis,  if  your  mother 
could  only  hear  you !" 

"  F.  Martin,"  said  I,  with  a  ges- 
ture, as  if  to  take  back  my  portfolio, 
"  if  you  are  going  to  begin  to  preach 
to  me,  take  care !  .  .  .  I  shall  give 
my  papers  to  some  one  who  may  rob 
me.  Then,  instead  of  merely  curtail- 
ing my  property  a  little,  I  shall  spend 
it  all  in  two  years,  or  four  at  the 
furthest;  or  rather,  we  shall  spend  it 
between  us." 


"  Dreadful  boy !  I  always  said  you 
had  the  faculty  of  making  everybody 
yield  to  you.  Well,  I  will  do  as  you 
wish." 

"  Ah !  that  is  right.  One  word 
more.  When  I  have  but  twenty 
thousand  francs  left,  you  may  warn 
me — not  before !" 

Things  went  on  thus  till  a  few  days 
ago.  I  spent  my  property  with  a 
rapidity  that  frightened  me  when  I 
thought  of  it.  M'y  father  perceived 
it.  My  extravagance  excited  his  in- 
dignation, but,  faithful  to  his  resolution 
to  avoid  all  contention,  he  forebore 
saying  anything.  Npt  quite  a  fort- 
night ago,  I  met  with  a  sad  disap- 
pointment. An  old  aunt  of  mine 
died.  I  had  calculated  on  being  her 
heir,  but  she  left  all  she  had  to  my 
sister  and  other  relatives,  and  gave 
me  nothing.  My  unwise  conduct 
had  for  some  time  prejudiced  her 
against  me.  This  disappointment 
made  me  quite  thoughtful.  I  wrote 
F.  Martin  that  I  wished  to  know 
the  exact  state  of  my  affairs.  The 
next  day  Martin  arrived  at  the  ap- 
pointed hour.  He  was  pale  and  agi 
tated — pitifully  so. 

"  M.  Louis,"  said  he,  "  you  anti- 
cipated me.  I  was  going  to  request 
an  interview  with  you.  You  have 
now  only  twenty  thousand  francs !" 

I  made  a  strong  effort  to  control 
myself,  and  replied,  with  a  smiling 
air :  "  Well  done  !  that  is  rather  fast 
work !" 

"  So  fast  that  I  can  hardly  believe 
you  have  come  to  this.  But  it  is 
really  so !" 

"  Where  are  the  twenty  thousand 
francs,  Martin  ?" 

"  Why,  I  have  not  got  them,  M. 
Louis !  I  have  only  five  thousand 
left  besides  what  you  took." 

At  this,  my  strength  almost  failed 
me.  I  at  once  realized  I  was  com- 
pletely ruined.  Fifteen  months  be- 
fore, I  had  withdrawn  twenty  thou- 


28 


Madame  Agnes. 


sand  francs  from  Martin's  hands  under 
the  pretext  of  investing  them  in  a 
particularly  advantageous  manner. 
A  trip  to  Germany,  play,  and  some 
pressing  debts  absorbed  this  sum 
without  Martin's  knowing  it.  I  qui- 
etly dismissed  him,  saying  I  would 
see  him  again  the  next  day.  Left 
alone,  I  balanced  my  accounts. 
Alas !  my  affairs  were  desperate ! 
The  five  thousand  francs  in  Martin's 
possession  were  all  I  had  left,  and 
my  debts  amounted  to  four  times 
that  sum  ! 

All  day  yesterday  I  remained  stu- 
pefied, as  it  were,  at  so  unexpected  a 
disclosure.  My  father  had  gone  to 
Paris.  I  resolved  to  take  refuge  in 
the  country,  and  come  to  some  deci- 
sion. I  went,  scarcely  knowing  what 
I  was  about,  angry  with  myself,  with 
everybody  else,  and  desperate.  All 
night  I  sought  some  way  of  escape 
from  the  terrible  blow  that  had  befall- 
en me.  I  walked  to  and  fro.  From 
anger  I  sank  into  the  most  profound 
dejection.  The  very  thought  of  ap- 
plying myself  to  any  occupation  what- 
ever appeared,  above  all,  intolerable. 

When  morning  came,  I  mechani- 
cally went  to  walk  beside  the  river 
that  runs  about  a  hundred  yards  from 


our  house,  and  fell  into  a  gloomy  re- 
verie. The  sleepless  nights,  the  riot- 
ing, the  habits  to  which  I  had  succes- 
sively given  myself  up  for  yea-rs,  the 
painful  anxiety  of  the  previous  night, 
had  excited  and  weakened  my  nerv- 
ous system.  I  was,  as  it  were,  de- 
prived of  my  reason. 

While  I  was  thus  lingering  on  the 
shore,  it  seemed  as  if  a  mysterious 
voice  invited  me  to  bury  myself  in  the 
current  before  me.  A  terrible  struggle 
took  place  between  my  reason,  the 
instinct  that  restrained  me,  and  the 
hallucination  that  kept  drawing  me 
nearer  the  bank.  Reason  failed  me. 
In  a  fit  of  despair,  I  cast  myself  into 
the  stream.  As  soon  as  I  felt  the 
cold  water,  my  reason,  my  faith, 
awoke  as  ardent  as  in  the  days  of  my 
boyhood.  A  cry  issued  from  the  very 
depths  of  my  soul :  "  O  Mary,  save 
me !  "  It  would  be  impossible  to  tell 
you  with  what  fervor,  what  terror,  I 
uttered  this  short  prayer — impossible, 
also,  to  express  the  immense  joy  that 
filled  my  heart  when  I  realized  I  was 
saved.  But  what  confusion  mingled 
with  this  joy — what  gratitude,  too, 
what  admiration  of  the  designs  of 
God,  when  I  saw  it  was  you  who  had 
rescued  me  at  the  peril  of  your  life ! 


CHAPTER   IX. 


BROTHER  AND   SISTER. 


M.  Louis  Beauvais  had  finished 
his  story. 

"And  now,"  said  Victor,  in  the 
cheering,  confidential  tone  of  one 
friend  who  wishes  to  encourage  an- 
other, "what  are  you  going  to 
do?" 

"That  is  precisely  the  question 
that  preoccupies  me.  In  fact,  I  see 
no  way  of  solving  it.  Were  you  to 
ask  me  what  I  am  not  going  to  do, 
oh  !  then  I  should  not  be  embarrassed 
for  a  reply.  At  all  events,  had  I  even 
the  means,  I  should  nof  wish  to  con- 


tinue the  life  I  have  led.  Nor  do  I 
any  longer  desire  to  escape  from  the 
trying  position  I  am  in  by  having 
recourse  to  the  cowardly,  criminal 
means  I  took  in  a  moment  of  mad- 
ness. Suicide  fills  me  with  horror! 
One  must  behold  death  face  to  face, 
as  I  have  to-day,  to  realize  how  easily 
a  man  can  deceive  himself.  I  had 
really  arrived  at  such  a  state  of  indif- 
ference and  insensibility  that  it  seemed 
as  if  I  had  never  had  any  religion  ; 
but  the  terrible  thought  no  sooner 
sprang  up  in  my  soul  that  I  was 


Madame  Agnes 


29 


about  lo  appear  before  God,  than  I 
found  myself  as  sincere  a  believer  as 
on  the  day  of  my  first  communion. 
My  whole  life  passed  in  review  be- 
fore me,  and  I  condemned  myself 
without  awaiting  the  divine  sentence. 
When  I  recall  the  inexpressible  terror 
of  that  moment;  when  I  remember 
if  God  had  not  sent  you  to  my  assist- 
ance, and  that,  had  it  not  been  for 
your  heroism,  I  should  have  been  for 
ever  lost,  there  springs  up  in  my  heart 
a  continually  increasing  gratitude  to 
my  heavenly  Father,  and  to  you  who 
were  the  agent  of  his  mercy." 

"  Then,  my  friend,"  replied  Victor 
gravely,  "  you  will  allow  me  to  make 
one  request." 

"  Consider  whatever  you  wduld  ask 
of  me  granted  in  advance." 

"  Then,  forget  the  past  six  or  eight 
years  of  your  life,  and  become  again 
what  you  were  under  your  mother's 
influence." 

"  I  pledge  you  my  word  to  do  so, 
and  hope  by  the  divine  assistance 
never  to  break  my  promise — a  pro- 
mise I  make  with  inexpressible  joy. 
But  that  is  not  all.  What  course  do 
you  advise  me  to  take  ?  " 

"  If  I  may  form  an  opinion  of  your 
sister  from  what  you  say,  she  must  be 
a  person  of  intelligence,  kind  feelings, 
and  decision.  In  your  place,  I  would 
go  to  her,  make  known  my  exact 
situation,  and  ask  her  advice." 

"  Yes ;  that  is  the  best  course  to 
take.  The  idea  pleases  me.  I  will 
put  it  in  execution  this  very  evening. 
My  father  is  to  be  absent  a  day  or 
two  longer.  I  shall  have  a  good  op- 
portunity of  talking  freely  with  Aline. 
I  will  go  directly  to  her  when  I  leave 
you.  To-morrow  morning  I  will  re- 
turn and  give  you  an  account  of  our 
interview." 

Louis  left  us  a  few  moments  after. 
We  commended  him  to  God  with  all 
our  hearts  at  our  evening  devotions. 
It  was  so  impressive  a  spectacle  to 


behold  a  soul  break  loose  from  past 
habits,  and  return  to  God  humiliated 
and  conscious  of  his  weakness — re- 
pentant, and  burning  with  ardor  to 
enter  upon  a  new  life. 

During  the  night,  Victor  was  seri- 
ously ill.  Fearing  he  was  going  to 
die,  I  exclaimed,  in  a  moment  of 
anguish : 

"  Oh  !  that  unfortunate  adventure ! 
That  wretched  young  man  will  be  the 
death  of  you !  " 

"  Take  that  back,  dear,"  said  Vic- 
tor; "it  pains  me.  Instead  of  deplor- 
ing this  occurrence,  and  calling  it 
unfortunate,  you  should  thank  God. 
He  has  thus  granted  my  dearest  wish. 
From  the  time  I  found  my  days  num- 
bered, I  prayed  God  to  grant  me 
every  possible  opportunity  of  showing 
how  earnestly  I  wished  to  serve  him 
during  the  short  time  left  me  on  earth. 
He  has  now  granted  my  desire.  If 
my  going  into  the  water  to-day  leads 
'to  my  death,  I  shall  have  the  infinite 
joy  of  being  in  a  certain  sense  a 
martyr,  for  I  fully  realized  the  danger. 
But  an  interior  voice  whispered : 
'There  is  a  soul  to  save,'  and  I 
plunged  into  the  river.  .  .  .  Others 
would  have  done  the  same,  but  God 
does  not  give  every  one  such  an  op- 
portunity. I  thank  him  for  having 
granted  it  to  me." 

By  degrees  Victor's  alarming  symp- 
toms wore  off.  When  he  awoke  the 
next  morning,  he  was  much  better 
than  I  had  dared  hope.  He  recalled 
with  a  lively  joy  the  events  of  the 
previous  day,  and  expressed  an  eager 
desire  to  know  what  Louis  and  his 
sister  had  decided  upon. 

We  were  not  kept  in  suspense  long. 
Louis  arrived  about  nine  o'clock. 
Seeing  his  face  was  calm  and  happy, 
my  poor  husband  manifested  a  livelier 
satisfaction  than  I  had  ever  known 
him  to  express. 

"  Sit  down  there,"  said  he,  pointing 
to  an  arm-chair  beside  his  bed,  "  and 


Madame  Agnes 


give  us  the  details  of  all  you  have 
done." 

As  we  agreed  upon  last  evening, 
replied  Louis,  I  went  directly  home 
after  leaving  you,  and  inquired  if  my 
sister  was  in.  They  told  me  she  was. 
I  went  to  her  room.  It  was  vacant. 
A  servant  informed  me  that  she  had 
given  up  her  old  chamber  some  weeks 
before,  and  now  occupied  my  mo- 
ther's. I  found  Aline  sitting  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  beside  a  stand,  in 
the  same  arm-chair  my  mother  made 
use  of  to  the  last.  I  cannot  express 
the  emotion  that  overpowered  me 
when  I  entered.  The  aspect  of  the 
room,  the  sight  of  the  well-known 
furniture,  Aline's  grave  air,  and  her 
resemblance  to  my  mother,  all  carried 
me  back  ten  years.  It  seemed  as  if  I 
were  once  more  in  the  presence  of 
her  whom  I  loved  so  much,  but 
whose  counsels  I  had  followed  so 
poorly.  My  agitation  increased  when 
Aline  sprang  towards  me,  clasped  me 
in  her  arms,  and  covered  my  face 
with  her  tears. 

"Wicked,  wicked  boy,  she  cried; 
you  wished  to  put  an  end  to  your 
life  ! ,  How  sinful  in  you  !  and  what 
sorrow  for  us !  Oh  !  conceal  nothing 
from  me.  .  .  .  You  are  very  unhappy, 
then  ?  .  .  .  You  have  no  confidence 
in  me  ?  .  .  .  Come,  tell  me  all. 
Leave  me  no  longer  in  a  state  of  un- 
certainty. And,  first,  have  you  re- 
nounced your  horrible  project?" 

Her  voice  betrayed  such  pro- 
found emotion,  her  eyes  such  tender 
affection  and  deep  anxiety,  that  I  was 
affected  to  tears.  I  began  by  begging 
pardon  for  all  the  anxiety  I  had 
caused  her.  I  pledged  my  word  to 
enter  upon  a  new  life.  When  we 
were  both  somewhat  calmer,  I  told 
her  all  I  had  related  to  you.  At  the 
end  of  the  account,  she  looked  at  me 
as  a  mother  would  at  her  son,  and 
said : 

"  Louis,  the  hand  of  God  has  visi- 


bly interposed  in  your  behalf.  Every- 
thing shows  you  would  have  been 
drowned.  And  what  a  horrible  end ! 
— in  that  river  where  so  few  people 
go,  especially  the  spot  you  chose,  had 
not  Providence,  at  the  very  moment 
you  plunged  into  the  water,  sent  a 
man,  a  noble-hearted  man,  to  save 
you  at  the  peril  of  his  life.  That  is 
not  all.  When  you  were  able  to 
thank  your  deliverer,  you  found  it  was 
— the  very  man  who  had  already 
been  brought  to  death's  door  through 
your  fault.  If  I  am  not  deceived, 
this  is  a  wonderful  interposition  of 
Providence.  You  have  been  a  great 
sinner,  my  poor  boy,  and  your  con- 
version had  to  be  effected  by  a  great 
sacrifice.  This  sacrifice  has  been 
offered  by  M.  Barnier  in  risking  his 
life  in  order  to  restore  you  to  exist- 
ence, which  you  wished  to  deprive 
yourself  of.  I  believe — pardon  my 
great  frankness — God  wished,  I  be- 
lieve, to  inspire  you  with  thorough 
repentance  by  showing  you  your  vic- 
tim under  the  form  of  your  deliverer. 
Oh  !  if  this  repentance  is  not  lasting, 
I  shall  tremble  at  the  thought  of  the 
chastisement  that  the  justice  of  God., 
weary  of  pardoning  you,  has  in  re- 
serve. But,  no ! — there  is  no  fear  of 
that.  And  now,  what  are  you  going 
to  do  ?  " 

"  Put  an  end  to  my  idle  life." 

"Very  well.  It  was  idleness  es- 
pecially that  caused  your  ruin.  But 
what  occupation  will  suit  you  ?  No 
imprudent  heroism!  You  must  do 
something  that  will  be  congenial." 

"  I  am  an  engineer.  It  is  time  to 
remember  it.  I  am  going  to  Paris. 
Either  there  or  elsewhere  I  can  easily 
find  a  place  in  some  manufactory." 

"Very  well.  Father  is  to  return 
to-morrow  evening.  What  has  oc- 
curred cannot  be  concealed  from 
him.  I  am  even  of  the  opinion  it 
would  be  best  to  tell  him  the  whole 
truth.  Only  .  .  .  you  will  allow 


Madame  Agnes. 


me  to  speak  with  the  frankness  of  a 
sister  who  loves  you,  will  you  not  ?" 

"  Oh !  yes.  Speak  to  me  as  our 
mother  would." 

"  Well,  then,  I  must  acknowledge 
father  is  extremely  offended  with  you. 
He  is  kind,  very  kind,  as  you  know, 
but  he  cannot  endure  want  of  calcu- 
lation, especially  in  money  matters, 
and  your  manner  of  conducting  has 
excited  his  indignation.  I  fear, 
therefore,  he  will  at  first  be  greatly 
irritated  at  learning  what  has  taken 
place.  Public  rumor  will  at  once^n- 
form  him  of  it,  so  that,  when  he  sees 
you  for  the  first  time,  you  will  not  be 
able  to  induce  him  to  listen  to  you. 
With  your  consent,  I  will  talk  with 
him  first.  To  prevent  a  premature 
explanation  with  him,  I  propose  you 
should  go  and  pass  two  or  three 
days  with  Aunt  Mary.  She  is  now 

at  her  country-seat  in  M .  It  is 

not  far  off.  I  can  easily  send  you 
word  when  it  is  time  for  you  to  return." 

I  need  not  say  with  what  gratitude 
I  accepted  this  proposal,  which  re- 
vealed the  kindness  of  a  sister,  the 
delicacy  of  a  woman,  and  the  pru- 
dence of  a  mother. 

Aline  continued :  "  I  have  two 
more  requests  to  make.  If  you  were 
a  different  person,  I  might  hesitate. 
But  you  were  once  pious.  You  are 
better  instructed  in  our  religion  than 
most  of  the  poor  young  men  of  our 
day.  In  a  word,  you  have  never 
lost  your  faith.  Do  not  delay  having 
recourse  to  the  remedy.  Go  to  con- 
fession as  soon  as  possible.  Confes- 
sion develops  repentance,  puts  a  seal 
on  our  good  resolutions,  and  confers 
a  special  grace  to  keep  them.  I 
speak  as  I  think.  A  repentance  that 
remains  purely  human  cannot  be 
lasting." 

I  promised  to  go  to  confession  to 
Father ,  and  shall  keep  my  pro- 
mise. 

"  One  favor  more,"  resumed  Aline 


"  It  is  a  somewhat  delicate  matter, 
but  let  us  talk  with  the  same  freedom 
and  simplicity  that  we  did  in  our 
childhood.  That  is  the  shortest  way 
to  come  to  an  understanding.  You 
say  you  are  fifteen  thousand  francs  in 
debt.  Knowing  my  father's  disposi- 
tion as  I  do,  I  am  sure  this  will 
cause  trouble  if  he  knows  it.  He  is 
a  man  who  would  forgive  your  spend- 
ing a  hundred  thousand  francs,  but  a 
debt  of  five  hundred  would  make  him 
extremely  angry.  This  is  strange, 
but  it  is  so.  And  you  may  be  sure 
as  soon  as  your  creditors  hear  of 
your  ruin,  they  will  come  upon  you. 
We  must,  therefore,  hasten  to  fore- 
stall them.  We  must  settle  with 
them  where  they  are.  Will  you  per- 
mit me  to  render  you  a  little  service  ? 
...  Sit  down  here,  and  draw  up,  as 
papa  would  say,  a  schedule  of  your 
debts.  I  will  give  it  to  our  head 
clerk  to-morrow,  bind  him  to  secrecy, 
and  before  noon  you  will  be  free  from 
debt." 

I  was  profoundly  moved  by  so 
much  generosity,  and  so  profuse  in 
my  thanks  as  to  greatly  touch  Aline 
herself.  But  she  concealed  her  emo- 
tion under  a  lively,  playful  manner. 
I  had  to  make  out  a  list  at  once.  I 
did  so,  and  gave  it  to  Aline.  She 
took  it  with  a  smile,  and  folded  it  up 
without  looking  at  it.  There  were 
two  small  sheets,  one  of  which  was 
nearly  blank. 

"  Why  two  papers  ?"  she  asked 
mechanically. 

"  One  contains  the  list — the  sad 
list ;  the  other  is  a  note  which  "... 

"  Ah  !  that  is  too  much  !  Louis,  my 
poor  Louis,  you  are  only  half  con- 
verted !  You  do  not  really  love  me  ! 
You  are  unwilling  to  receive  any  thing 
from  me.  You  would  deprive  me  of 
the  pleasure  of  giving  this  to  you. 
Ah  !  that  is  wrong.  Oh!  the  con- 
temptible role  you  wish  me  to  play ! 
I  lend  it  to  you !  Fie,  fie !  "  .  .  . 


Madame  Agnes. 


So  saying,  Aline  tore  up  the  un- 
fortunate note. 

The  night  was  far  advanced  before 
we  separated.  I  had  already  bidden 
my  sister  good-night.  She  retained 
my  hand  in  hers,  and,  looking  at  me 
with  a  caressing  air,  said  : 

"  Louis,  one  favor  more  !  Let  us 
say  our  night-prayers  together  at  the 
foot  of  that  bed  where  our  dear  mo- 
ther made  us  say  them  so  often.  We 
will  pray  for  her.  She  watches  over 
us.  What  has  happened  to  you  is  a 
proof  of  it." 

We  sank  on  our  knees  beside  each 
other.  Aline  said  the  prayers  aloud. 
I  repeated  them  with  my  lips  and  in 
my  heart,  and  with  so  much  joy  and 
emotion  that  I  melted  into  tears. 

This  morning  I  took  leave  of 
Aline.  She  means  to  come  here  her- 


self, in  order  to  express  her  gratitude 
My  mother  could  not  feel  more. 
Oh !  how  she  loves  you !  As  for 
me,  I  am  going  away  ruined,  but 
happier  than  if  my  fortune  were  in- 
creased tenfold.  Pray  for  me.  And 
you,  my  dear  friend,  take  care  of 
yourself.  I  trembled  yesterday  at 
the  thought  of  the  danger  to  which 
you  had  exposed  yourself  in  order  to 
save  my  life.  I  trembled  as  I  came 
here,  fearing  your  heroic  imprudence 
might  have  led  to  fatal  results ! 
Tl^ank  God !  there  is  nothing  serious. 
But  redouble  your  precautions ;  I 
shall  need  you  for  a  long  while.  You 
will  be  my  best  guide  in  the  new  way 
upon  which  I  have  now  entered. 

Louis  then  departed,  leaving  us 
exceedingly  happy  at  the  favorable 
turn  in  his  affairs. 


CHAPTER  X. 
ALINE'S    HOPES. 


The  second  day  after  Louis'  de- 
parture, we  had  in  the  afternoon  an 
agreeable  surprise :  Aline  called  to 
see  us.  All  that  Louis  had  told 
about  us  about  her  prepossessed  us  in 
'her  favor.  The  sight  of  her  only 
increased  our  disposition  to  love 
her. 

Aline  was  at  the  time  I  am  speaking 
of — and  still  is — afine-looking  woman, 
tall,  well-formed,  and  with  a  pleas- 
ing, intelligent  face.  Her  manner  is 
a  little  cold  at  first,  but  her  reserve  is 
not  unpleasing,  for  it  indicates  a 
thoughtful  mind.  When  she  came 
into  the  room,  my  husband  and  I 
were  reading.  She  went  directly  to 
Victor,  and  with  emotion,  but  with- 
out any  embarrassment,  said : 

"  Monsieur,  I  am  late  in  express- 
ing my  gratitude.  Pardon  this  delay. 
It  has  not  been  without  good  reasons. 
I  was  expecting  my  father  every  mo- 
ment, and  was  greatly  preoccupied 
with  all  I  had  to  communicate,  as 


well  as  about  the  reply  he  would 
make."  .  .  . 

"  Mademoiselle,"  replied  Victor 
gently,  "  there  is  no  need  of  excus- 
ing yourself.  I  am  happy,  very  happy, 
to  see  you,  but  had  no  right  to  ex- 
pect your  visit." 

"  No  right,  monsieur  ?  .  .  .  What ! 
did  you  not  save  my  brother's  life  ? 
.  .  .  And  was  it  not  you  the  unhappy 
fellow  had  before  "... 

"  O  mademoiselle !  do  me  the 
favor  never  to  mention  that  circum- 
stance !" 

"  You  are  generous,  monsieur ! 
But  that  is  no  reason  why  we  should 
show  ourselves  ungrateful — rather  the 
contrary.  Louis  and  I  can  never 
forget  that,  before  you  saved  his  life, 
he  had  injured  you  to  such  a  degree 
that  he  can  never  be  sufficiently  re- 
pentant. As  to  my  father,  I  have 
not  dared  inform  him  of  these  details 
too  painful  to  be  acknowledged.  My 
father,  alas !  is  not  religious.  Louis' 


Madame  Agnes. 


33 


fault  would  seem  so  enormous  to  him 
that  he  would  never  forgive  him." 

"  It  is,  however,  of  but  little  ac- 
count. If  harm  has  resulted  from  it, 
Louis  was  only  the  involuntary  cause. 
Let  us  adore  the  divine  decrees,  and 
forgive  our  poor  friend.  He  had 
not,  after  all,  any  very  criminal  in- 
tentions." 

Aline  looked  at  Victor  with  a  sad- 
ness she  could  not  wholly  conceal. 
His  wasted  features,  his  eyes  hollow- 
ed by  suffering,  his  air  of  languor, 
nothing  escaped  her  observation. 

"  I  wish  I  could  think  so,"  mur- 
mured she,  as  if  speaking  to  herself. 
"  Ah  !  poor  Louis,  what  remorse  he 
must  feel !" 

This  allusion  to  Victor's  sad  con- 
dition brought  tears  to  my  eyes. 
Victor  suspected  my  emotion,  and  at 
once  changed  the  subject. 

"  M.  Louis  has  become  jny  friend," 
said  he  to  Aline ;  ''  therefore  pardon 
my  curiosity,  mademoiselle,  if  it  is  in- 
discreet. May  we  hope  to  see  him 
again  soon  ?  Is  M.  Beauvais  greatly 
offended  with  him  ?" 

Everything  is  arranged  for  the 
best,  though  not  without  difficulty. 
My  father  was  not  originally  wealthy. 
It  has  only  been  by  dint  of  order, 
economy,  and  industry,  that  he  has 
attained  the  position  he  now  occu- 
pies. When  he  learned  that  Louis 
had  lost,  or  rather  squandered,  his 
maternal  inheritance,  his  anger  was 
fearful.  But  by  degrees  I  made  him 
comprehend  that  Louis,  though  ruin- 
ed, had  shown  new  resolution — that 
he  was  willing  to  work;  he  wished  to 
become  useful,  and  regain  all  he  had 
lost.  My  father  then  grew  calm.  And 
yet  all  my  fears  were  not  allayed.  I 
had  to  tell  him  of  Louis'  sad  attempt 
at  suicide,  of  which  he  was  still  igno- 
rant, but  which^he  could  not  fail  to 
learn.  I  told  him  of  it,  dwelling  on 
your  devotedness,  which  struck  him 
most  of  all. 


"  Has  Victor  shown  himself  duly 
grateful  to  M.  Barnier  for  the  ser- 
vice ?"  he  asked.  I  replied  that  he 
had. 

"  So  much  the  better.  Such  a  sen- 
timent does  him  honor*  This  cir- 
cumstance may  lead  to  a  friendship 
between  them  which  cannot  be  too 
intimate,  in  my  opinion.  And  you 
say  our  prodigal  son  is  willing  to 
work  ?  What  is  he  going  to  do  ?" 

"  Anything  you  wish,  father." 

"  That  is  easily  said,  but  a  poor 
reply.  Nothing  is  well  done  that  we 
do  not  like  to  do.  Has  he  manifest- 
ed an  inclination  for  any  special  oc- 
cupation ?" 

"  Louis  is  a  civil  engineer.  He 
would  like  to  find  a  place  somewhere 
in  that  capacity." 

"  Ah  !  he  at  length  remembers  he 
is  a  civil  engineer !  .  .  .  He 
wishes  to  turn  his  acquirements  to 
some  account  ?  ...  It  is  a 
wonder !  He  need  not  exile  himself 
for  that.  You  know  Mr.  Smithson  ?" 

"  Is  not  he  the  cold,  ceremonious- 
gentleman  who  came  to  see  us  Sun- 
day ?" 

"  The  very  one.  Mr.  Smithson  is 
a  wealthy  Englishman  who  has  been 
in  France  these  twenty  years.  He 
came  on  account  of  his  health.  He 
settled  at  first  in  Paris,  where  he 
married  a  charming  woman — a  Ca- 
tholic of  no  property,  but  of  a  "good 
family.  This  excellent  Mr.  Smithson 
was  so  foolish  as  to  speculate  too 
much  at  the  Bourse  some  years  since, 
and  his  losses  were  considerable.  To 
withdraw  himself  from  such  a  tempt- 
ation, he  established  his  residence  at 
St.  M six  months  ago.  The  situ- 
ation pleased  him,  and  there  was  an- 
other inducement :  a  large  paper  man- 
ufactory there  was  offered  for  sale.  He 
bought  it,  hoping  not  only  to  find 
occupation,  and  feed  his  incessant 
activity,  but  to  repair  the  losses  of  the 
last  few  years.  The  mill  is  well  situ- 


34 


Madame  Agnes. 


ated  and  well  patronized.  Every- 
thing would  prove  advantageous  if 
Mr.  Smithson  were  better  versed  in 
the  knowledge  of  machinery.  But 
though  an  Englishman,  he  has  not 
been  through  the  studies  necessary 
to  enable  him  to  superintend  his  in- 
dustrial project  as  he  ought.  Besides 
this,  he  is  subject  to  frequent  attacks 
of  the  gout.  He  has  therefore  be- 
sought me  to  find  him  a  man  capable 
of  superintending  the  mill  under  his 
direction,  and  even  of  taking  the 
whole  charge  if  necessary." 

So  much  for  Louis'  affairs.  What 
do  you  think  of  the  arrangement? 
I  approved  of  it  without  any  restric- 
tion. And  you,  monsieur  ? 

"  I  think,  mademoiselle,"  replied 
Victor, "  that  Providence  continues  to 
treat  Louis  with  parental  kindness." 

"  Oh !  yes ;  truly  parental !  He  will 
now  remain  under  your  influence. 
Even  in  the  house  he  is  to  enter, 
everything  will  encourage  him,  I 
hope,  to  persist  in  his  good  resolu- 
tions. Mme.  Smithson  is  said  to 
be  a  woman  of  lovely  character. 
She  has  a  daughter  who  must  be  a 
prodigy,  unless  I  have  been  misin- 
formed. My  father,  who  is  very 
practical,  and  but  little  given  to  ex- 
aggeration, is  enthusiastic  in  her 
praise." 

Victor  knowingly  smiled  at  this 
but  communication. 


"  You  have  divined  my  thoughts," 
said  Aline,  blushing  a  little.  "  Well, 
yes  :  this  thought  at  once  occurred  to 
my  mind.  I  said  to  myself,  if  Louis 
can  find  at  Mr.  Smithson's  not  only 
an  occupation  that  will  enable  him 
to  forget  the  past,  but  an  affection 
that  will  continue  to  sustain  him  in 
a  better  course,  I  shall  consider  him 
the  most  fortunate  of  men.  But  it  is 
too  soon  to  speak  of  that.  This  dear 
brother  must  first  return  home,  and 
be  accepted  by  Mr.  Smithson,  to 
whom  my  father  wrote  to-day." 

The  next  day  both  these  things 
took  place.  Louis  returned.  Mr. 
Smithson  at  once  accepted  him  as 
his  assistant.  After  calling  on  us 
with  his  father,  he  left  for  St.  M . 

While  M.  Beauvais  was  speaking 
to  me,  Louis  said  to  Victor,  in  a  low 
tone: 

"  Everything  is  done.  The  bonds 
of  iniquity  are  completely  broken. 
I  have  been  to  confession  and  to 
Holy  Communion,  and  a  new  life 
has  begun ! " 

The  air  of  satisfaction  with  which 
he  uttered  these  words,  the  calmness 
and  unaffected  gravity  he  manifested, 
all  announced  he  had  indeed  be- 
come a  new  man. 

"  In  a  year  he  will  be  an  eminent 
Christian !"  said  Victor,  as  Louis 
disappeared. 

He  was  not  mistaken. 


Madame  Agnes. 


35 


CHAPTER  XI. 


EUGENIE. 


A  WEEK  after,  Louis  came  to  see 
us  fof  the  first  time. 

"  Well,"  inquired  Victor,  "  do  you 
like  your  new  manner  of  life  ?" 

"  Yes  and  no,  my  dear  friend,"  re- 
plied Louis.  "Yes,  because  I  feel 
that  the  new  life  on  which  I  have 
entered  is  good  for  me.  It  is  just 
what  I  needed,  I  must  confess — for  I 
think  alqud  here.  It  is  such  a  relief 
to  speak  to  some  one  who  under- 
stands, who  loves  you,  and  is  always 
ready  to  excuse  and  pardon  you ! 
But  I  forewarn  you  I  need,  and  shall 
need,  great  indulgence,  though  no- 
thing ought  to  seem  too  hard  to  one 
who  was  on  the  high-road  to  de- 
struction, soul  and  body,  and  would 
at  this  very  instant  be  lost,  had  not 
God,  in  his  mercy,  sent  you  to  my 
aid.  This  benefit  has  filled  me,  I 
assure  you,  with  so  much  gratitude 
from  the  first  that,  in  view  of  my 
past  life  and  the  divine  goodness,  I 
feel  I  ought  to  be  a  saint  in  order  to 
expiate  so  many  transgressions — I 
ought  to  prove  my  sincerity  by  some 
heroic  sacrifice  for  God." 

"  Oh !  oh !  that  is  somewhat  am- 
bitious." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  absurd.  Not  that 
it  is  necessarily  absurd  to  aspire  to 
heroism,  but  the  means  should  be 
taken  into  consideration.  Now,  mine 
are  fearfully,  pitifully  inadequate.  I 
am  cowardly,  fickle,  and  a  lover  of 
my  ease." 

"  Come,  come  !  do  not  calumniate 


yourself.  We  must  neither  judge 
ourselves  with  too  much  leniency 
nor  with  too  much  severity.  We 
must  see  ourselves  as  we  are.  This 
is  difficult,  but  it  is  essential/' 

"  Well,  my  kind  friend,  that  is  ex- 
actly the  way  I  regard  myself." 

"  I  doubt  it." 

"  You  shall  judge  for  yourself. 
My  duties  oblige  me  to  remain  night 

and  day  at  St.  M .  Alas !  this 

very  necessity  I  find  harder  than  I 
can  express.  There  is  not  a  day  in 
which  I  do  not  find  myself  regretting 
the  city  three  or  four  times.  This  is 
very  wrong,  when  the  city  has  been 
so  pernicious  to  me  .  .  ." 

"  Come,  you  exaggerate  things. 
You  were  born  and  brought  up  in 
the  city,  and  have  always  lived  here 
till  now.  I  see  nothing  astonishing 
at  your  finding  it  disagreeable  at  first 
to  live  in  the  country." 

"  What  a  lenient  judge !  We  shall 
see  if  you  are  as  much  so  after  the 
other  acknowledgments  I  have  to 
make.  There  are  times  when  work 
seems  insupportable.  To  rise  at  six 
o'clock  and  superintend  workmen 
and  machinery  the  live-long  day 
irritates  and  fatigues  me  to  such  a 
degree  that  I  am  sometimes  tempted 
to  give  it  all  up." 

"  You  have  not  yet  yielded  to  the 
temptation  ?" 

"  No,  indeed ;  that  would  be  too 
despicable." 

"  Since  you  yourself  regard  such  a 


Madame  Agnes. 


step  as  it  deserves,  pursue  your  oc- 
cupation without  being  concerned 
about  a  slight  disinclination  for  work. 
Even  people  who  have  always  been 
accustomed  to  labor  have  such  temp- 
tations. I  assure  you,  in  a  year 
there  will  be  no  question  of  all  this. 
You  will  have  acquired  a  love  for 
your  business,  and,  active  as  you  are, 
you  will  not  be  able  to  do  without 
it." 

"  You  think  me  at  the  end  of  my 
confession.  The  worst  is  to  come. 
Mr.  Smithson  is  polite  and  sincere, 
but  reserved  and  ceremonious,  like 
all  Englishmen.  He  keeps  me  at  a 
distance,  and  appears  as  if  my  errors 
and  loss  of  property,  which  of  course 
he  is  aware  of,  gave  him  some  supe- 
riority over  me.  I  think  he  does 
wrong  to  make  me  feel  this." 

"  Ah !  this  is  more  serious,  my 
dear  friend.  Like  all  people  in  a 
wrong  position,  you  are  inclined  to 
be  unduly  sensitive.  Watch  over 
yourself.  Endeavor  to  be  guided  by 
reason.  I  do  not  wish  you  to  sub- 
mit to  too  much  haughtiness,  but  do 
not  attribute  to  people  airs,  and  es- 
pecially intentions,  they  are  not  guilty 
of." 

"  You  are  a  thousand  times  right. 
I  appreciate  your  advice,  and  promise 
to  follow  it.  It  would,  indeed,  be 
foolish  to  make  myself  needlessly  un- 

liappy.     St.  M ,  as  you  know,  is 

a  lovely  place.  The  river  on  which 
the  mill  stands  has  many  charming 
vfiews.  During  my  leisure  hours,  I 
can  draw  and  paint  at  my  ease.  I 
have  a  great  deal  to  do,  and  my 
work  is  frequently  burdensome,  but  I 
shall  become  accustomed  to  it,  for  it 
is  a  source  of  real  interest.  By  an 
excess  of  good  luck,  I  have  lodgings 
that  suit  me  in  apartments  near  Mr. 
Smithson's  house.  There  I  can  read, 
meditate,  and  pray  at  my  leisure. 
One  thing  only  is  wanting — a  little 
society  in  the  evening;  but  that  will 


come,  perhaps.  I  am  invited  to  dine 
at  Mr.  Smithson's  next  Thursday. 
I  hope  that  will  be  the  commence- 
ment of  closer  intercourse  with  the 
family.  Hitherto,  I  repeat,  they 
have  kept  me  at  a  distance.  I  have 
exchanged  a  few  words  with  Mme. 
Smithson,  who  appears  very  affable, 
but  I  have  only  had  a  glimpse  of  the 
daughter — Eugenie,  I  believe  her 
name  is.  As  far  as  I  could  judge, 
she  is  tall,  fine-looking,  even  digni- 
fied in  her  appearance,  with  some- 
thing haughty  in  her  air.  I  frankly 
confess  it  will  be  a  treat  to  meet  these 
three  people.  I  have  always  had  a 
fancy  for  studying  different  charac- 
ters, and  shall  enjoy  it  particularly 
now,  I  am  so  unoccupied  in  the 
evening." 

"  And  your  workmen — what  do 
you  make  of  them  ?" 

"  I  am  constantly  observing  them, 
and  assure  you  they  are  as  interest- 
ing to  study  as  any  one  else.  What 
a  source  of  reflection !  We  have, 
you  must  know,  workmen  of  every 
grade,  good  and  bad — yes,  fearfully 
bad.  There  are  four  hundred  and 
fifty  people— men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren— who  represent  every  phase  of 
humanity." 

"  To  study  mankind,  my  dear 
friend,  to  confine  one's  self  to  that, 
is  an  amusement  suitable  for  a  phi- 
losopher. But  a  Christian  has  higher 
views  :  he  studies  human  nature  in 
order  to  be  useful." 

"  That  idea  has  occurred  to  me. 
I  have  even  formed  a  series  of  fine 
projects ;  but  I  am  so  poor  a  Chris- 
tian, and  so  inexperienced !" 

"  No  false  modesty  !  Excuse  my 
bluntness;  but  false  modesty  is  the 
shield  of  the  indolent,  or  their  couch, 
whichever  you  please.  Have  you 
any  desire  to  benefit  the  people 
among  whom  you  live  ?" 

"  Yes,  certainly,  if  I  can." 

"You  can.     You  only  need   zeal 


Madame  Agnes. 


37 


ana  prudence ;  the  one  ought  always 
to  guide  the  other.  Come,  what 
plans  have  occurred  to  you  ?" 

"  I  should  like  to  found  an  even- 
ing-school, and  take  charge  of  it. 
Those  who  are  the  best  instructed 
might  serve  as  monitors." 

"  Perfect !  That  would  be  a  means 
of  keeping  the  young  men,  and  even 
those  of  riper  years,  from  idleness 
and  the  wine-shops,  and  afford  you 
an  opportunity  of  giving  them  good 
advice.  What  else  ?" 

"  I  should  also  like  to  establish  a 
fund  of  mutual  aid." 

"  Excellent !  .  .  .  Reflect  on 
these  two  projects  till  Sunday.  I 
will  do  the  same.  Consult  Mr. 
Smithson  also  about  them,  and  come 
and  dine  with  us  in  a  week.  We 
will  talk  it  over,  and  you  can  tell  me 
how  you  like  the  family  you  are 
about  to  become  acquainted  with.  I 
hope  you  will  be  pleased  with  them." 

"  I  hope  so  too,  but  have  my 
fears.  If  they  were  all  like  Mme. 
Smithson,  everything  would  be  pro- 
pitious. I  took  a  fancy  to  her  from 
the  first.  But  Mr.  Smithson  is  frigid, 
and  his  daughter  seems  equally  un- 
approachable. It  is  singular,  but  I 
had  met  her  once  or  twice  before 
I  entered  her  father's  employ.  I 
thought  her  beautiful  and  intelligent, 
and  heard  her  very  highly  spoken  of. 
But  really,  I  begin  to  believe  that  she, 
like  many  others,  is  brilliant  rather 
than  solid." 

"  Come,  come !  no  rash  judg- 
ments !" 

"  What  can  I  say  ?  I  was  deceived 
in  her.  I  thought  her  an  uncommon 
woman — one  capable  of  compre- 
hending all  the  delicacy  of  my  posi- 
tion, and  of  coming  to  my  assistance. 
She  ought  to  realize  that  I  am  out  of 
my  element  there.  You  must  confess 
that  Mile.  Smithson's  coolness  does 
not  tend  to  console  me." 

"  Why,   my  dear   friend,  you   are 


very  exacting !  .  .  .  Would  you 
expect  as  much  from  every  one  ?" 

"  No ;  but  this  young  lady  occu- 
pies an  important  place  in  the  house, 
without  trying,  I  confess,  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  it." 

"  And  an  important  place  in 
your  thoughts  .  .  ."  said  Victor, 
with  the  friendly,  significant  smile  so 
natural  to  him. 

Louis  blushed. 

"  I  am  inclined  to  think  your  opin- 
ion of  her  will  be  less  severe  in  a 
week.  I,  too,  have  heard  her  highly 
spoken  of." 

These  words  seemed  to  afford 
Louis  great  satisfaction.  Victor  did 
not  continue  the  subject. 

If  you  have  carefully  followed  the 
conversation  I  have  just  related,  you 
must  see  that  Louis,  though  unaware 
of  his  sister's  hopes,  already  thought 
more  of  Mile.  Eugenie  than  he  con- 
fessed or  even  acknowledged  to  him- 
self. I  think  I  shall  only  anticipate 
your  wishes  in  making  you  acquaint- 
ed at  once  with  that  young  lady, 
who  is  to  fill  an  important  role  in  my 
story.  And  this  cannot  be  done 
better  than  in  her  own  home. 

Eugenie  is  in  her  chamber.  It  is 
the  morning  of  the  day  Louis  and 
some  other  acquaintances  are  to  dine 
with  her  father.  She  is  engaged 
in  completing  her  toilet.  A  more 
charming  room  cannot  be  imagined. 
It  is  furnished  in  exquisite  style. 
Nothing  is  lacking.  The  pictures 
are  all  rare,  and  arranged  with  artistic 
taste.  The  book-case  contains,  not 
so  many  books,  but  solid  works  that 
will  beaj  reading  over  and  over 
again.  What,  above  all,  completes 
the  charm  of  this  young  girl's  bovver 
is  the  view  to  be  seen  from  the  two 
windows,  which  are  like  frames  to  a 
picture.  They  afford  a  glimpse  of  a 
terrestrial  paradise  through  which 
flow  the  limpid  waters  of  a  deep 
stream.  A  breeze,  playing  through 


Madame  Agnes. 


the  poplars  that  stand  on  its  banks, 
softly  rustles  the  leaves.  Directly 
across,  on  the  opposite  shore,  is  a 
broad  meadow,  bright  with  flowers, 
with  here  and  there  clumps  of  trees. 
As  far  as  the  eye  can  reach  are  ob- 
jects on  every  side  to  satisfy  the  soul, 
and  excite  it  to  reverie  :  a  windmill 
with  its  long  wings  of  white  canvas 
swaying  in  the  air ;  a  villa  with  its 
gardens;  a  little  hamlet,  and,  over- 
looking it,  a  church,  the  slated  belfry 
of  which  is  glistening  in  the  sun. 

The  world  is  full  of  material  souls 
whom  it  would  be  a  kind  of  profana- 
tion to  introduce  into  a  place  so  at- 
tractive. They  would  be  unable  to 
appreciate  the  charm.  What  is  na- 
ture, however  beautiful,  to  a  man 
eaten  up  with  avarice  and  ambition  ? 
—to  a  woman  who  only  dreams  of 
pleasure  ?  .  To  such  degen- 

erate souls,  nature  is  a  sealed  book — 
a  divine  picture  before  a  sightless 
eye. 

But  to  this  number  Eugenie  did 
not  belong.  The  daughter  of  a  Ca- 
tholic mother  and  a  Protestant  father, 
she  had  been  educated  in  one  of  the 
best  schools  in  Paris.  Shall  I  call 
her  pious  ?  No ;  that  would  be  ex- 
aggerating. Eugenie  did  not  lack 
faith.  Her  religious  instincts  were 
well  developed,  but  checked  by  her 
father's  coldness  and  her  mother's 
frivolity.  She  was  by  no  means  in- 
sensible to  all  the  beautiful  and  true 
in  religion.  They  filled  her  with  ad- 
miration. She  always  fulfilled  the 
obligations  rigorously  imposed  by  the 
church,  but  avoided  going  any  far- 
ther through  indifference  as  well  as 
calculation.  She  had  a  horror  of 
what  she  called  petty  religion  and 
little  practices  of  piety.  Poor  girl ! 
she,  too,  closed  her  eyes  in  this  re- 
spect to  the  light.  The  practices  she 
disdained —  frequent  prayers,  the 
raising  of  the  soul  to  God,  visits  to 
the  church,  and  assiduous  frequenta- 


tion  of  the  sacraments — are  they  not 
what  truly  constitute  religion,  such 
as  it  ought  to  be,  in  order  to  be  the 
companion,  friend,  and  guide  of  the 
whole  life?  .  .  .  This  is  what 
Eugenie  did  not  comprehend,  or  ra- 
ther, what  she  did  not  wish  to  com- 
prehend. In  short,  she  was  religious 
in  her  own  way — half-way  religious — 
quite  so  in  theory,  but  in  reality 
much  less  so  than  she  should  have 
been. 

The  somewhat  indirect  influence 
her  parents  exercised  over  her  in  a 
religious  point  of  view  also  affected 
her  in  other  ways.  Eugenie  possess- 
ed two  natures :  she  was  cold  like  her 
father,  and  kind  like  her  mother,  but 
without  displaying  it.  Let  us  also 
add  another  characteristic  by  way  of 
completing  her  portrait — she  was  ro- 
mantic. In  everything,  she  had  a 
repugnance  to  what  she  called  com- 
monplace. An  object,  an  individual, 
or  an  action,  to  please  her,  must  have 
a  peculiar  stamp,  an  original  turn, 
which  she  wished  might  be  more  fre 
quently  met  with.  She  only  liked 
what  was  out  of  the  common  course, 
according  to  the  elevated  standard 
of  a  certain  ideal  she  had  formed  in 
her  own  mind. 

Eugenie's  exterior,  her  distinguish- 
ed manners,  her  fluency  in  conversa- 
tion, and  the  tone  of  her  calm,  well- 
modulated  voice,  all  inspired  a  respect 
bordering  on  admiration.  She  was 
beautiful  without  being  bewitching. 
She  was  kind,  but  in  so  inexpressive 
a  way  as  to  inspire  at  first  fear  rather 
than  confidence.  As  has  been  said, 
she  possessed  a  character  not  easily 
read,  and,  though  only  twenty-one 
years  old,  she  passed  for  what  is 
called,  and  with  reason,  a  person  of 
ability:  Her  father  and  mother  doted 
on  her:  she  was  their  only  child. 
Yet  there  was  a  difference  in  their 
affection.  Mr.  Smithson  tenderly  lov- 
ed her  as  a  daughter :  Mine.  Smithson 


Madame  Agnes. 


39 


loved  her  with  a  shade  of  fear,  as  we 
love  a  companion  or  friend  whose 
superiority  we  feel. 

Her  toilet  otherwise  completed, 
Eugenie  rang  for  her  waiting-maid 
to  arrange  her  hair.  Fanny  did  not 
keep  her  waiting.  There  was  a  strik- 
ing contrast  between  mistress  and 
maid.  Fanny  was  towards  forty 
years  of  age.  She  was  of  ordinary 
height,  neat  in  person,  but  plain  and 
unattractive  in  appearance.  She  had 
a  bad  complexion,  large  eyes  hidden 
under  thick  lashes,  a  wide  mouth,  and 
a  large  fleshy  nose,  which  made  up 
one  of  those  vulgar  faces  that  are 
never  observed  except  to  laugh  at. 
She  was  beloved  by  no  one  except 
her  employers.  This  was  not  strange. 
She  had  an  observing  eye  and  a 
keen,  sarcastic  tongue.  Her  nature 
was  soured,  rather '  than  instinctively 
bad.  She  was  selfish  and  bitter — a 
good  deal  so.  This  selfishness  and 
bitterness  sprang  from  two  causes 
which  she  would  by  no  means  have 
acknowledged.  She  was  no  longer 
young,  she  knew  she  was  homely, 
and  she  had  no  hope  of  being  mar- 
ried. Such  a  hope  she  had  once,  and 
a  few  days  of  happiness  was  the  result. 
Fanny  would  have  been  so  glad  to 
be,  in  her  turn,  mistress  over  her  own 
house !  But'her  dream  had  vanished, 
and  under  circumstances  not  calculat- 
ed to  sweeten  her  temper. 

For  some  years,  Fanny  was  a  ser- 
vant at  Mme.  Smithson's  sister's. 
That  lady  was  in  the  commercial  line 
at  Paris.  There  Fanny  made  the 
conquest  of  a  smart  young  man  from 
the  country  employed  by  her  mistress 
as  head  clerk.  He  was  an  excellent 
person,  but,  like  many  others,  wished 
to  reconcile  his  affections  with  his 
interests.  He  said  to  himself  that, 
by  waiting  awhile,  he  might,  some 
fine  day,  find  a  wife  richer,  prettier, 
and  younger  than  Fanny.  As  he 
was  bound  to  her  by  no  actual  pro- 


raise,  he  finally  obtained  another  situa- 
tion, and  disappeared  without  any 
warning.  The  poor  girl  regarded 
such  conduct  as  infamous.  She  feh 
that  all  hope  of  ever  marrying  was 
now  lost,  and  the  disappointment 
made  her  ill.  Unbeknown  to  her, 
her  mistress  had  followed  all  the 
scenes  of  this  little  domestic  drama. 
She  nursed  Fanny  with  a  care  that 
was  quite  motherly.  When  the  girl 
recovered,  she  expressed  her  grati- 
tude, but  begged  permission  to  go 
away.  The  house  had  too  many 
cruel  associations.  Her  mistress  will- 
ingly consented,  and  Fanny  entered 
Mme.  Smithson's  service.  When  the 
latter  left  Paris,  Fanny  accompanied 

her  to  St.  M ,  and  had  now  been 

in  the  family  several  years. 

Having,  to  her  great  regret,  no 
prospect  of  marrying,  forced  to  ac- 
knowledge to  herself  that  she  should 
never  have  a  house  of  her  own  to 
manage,  Fanny  had  but  one  desire, 
but  this  was  an  ardent  one — to  be 
installed  in  a  family  which,  if  not  her 
own,  might  prove  as  pleasant,  and 
where  she  could  rule  while  appearing 
to  obey.  But  where  find  this  ideal 
home  ?  .  .  .  She  resolved  to  create  it. 
And  in  this  way :  her  old  mistress, 
Mme.  Smithson's  sister,  had  a  son 
named  Albert,  who  was  five  years 
older  than  Eugenie.  Fanny  had 
known  him  from  his  childhood.  She 
was  attached  to  him,  and,  above  all, 
she  understood  his  disposition.  No 
one  knew  better  than  she  that  Al- 
bert would  be  the  easiest,  the  most 
manageable,  in  short,  the  mildest  of 
masters.  On  the  other  hand,  she 
knew  that  Eugenie,  energetic  as  she 
was,  would  not  be  difficult  to  please. 
"  Mademoiselle  lives  in  the  clouds," 
she  said  to  herself;  "she  will  be 
glad  enough  to  have  some  one  man- 
age the  house  for  her." 

Fanny,  therefore,  resolved  to 
make  a  match  between  the  two  coi>- 


Madame  Agnes. 


sins.  There  is  reason  to  believe  she 
made  skilful  overtures  to  her  former 
mistress  and  to  the  young  man  him- 
self, and  that  these  overtures  were 
well  received.  Albert  was  now  pre- 
paring his  thesis  with  a  view  to  the 
law.  As  he  was  not  rich,  his  cou- 
sin's fortune  was  a  very  pleasant 
prospect,  and  still  more  so  to  his 
mother.  Besides,  Albert  had  always 
known  Eugenie  and  loved  her,  as  is 
natural  to  love  a  cousin  that  is 
pretty  and  intelligent  He  and  his 
mother,  therefore,  made  Fanny  their 
intermediary,  without  committing 
themselves  to  too  great  an  extent. 

But  Fanny  had  a  good  deal  to 
overcome.  Mr.  Smithson  was  not 
partial  to  lawyers.  The  profession 
was  not,  in  his  estimation,  clearly 
enough  defined  or  very  elevated. 
As  to  Eugenie,  no  one  knew  what 
her  sentiments  were  with  regard  to 
her  cousin.  Fanny  thought  she  had, 
if  not  a  very  strong  attachment  to 
him,  at  least  an  incipient  affection. 
But  she  was  not  sure.  Thence  re- 
sulted continual  fears.  Every  young 
man  who  entered  the  house  was  to 
her  an  object  of  alarm.  Perhaps  her 
prospects,  so  slowly  ripening  and  so 
dear,  would  be  again  overthrown  by 
this  one ! 

It  may  be  imagined  that  Fanny 
looked  with  an  unfavorable  eye  on 
Louis'  connection  with  the  manufac- 
tory. If  Mr.  Smithson  had  chosen 
another  kind  of  a  man  to  aid  him, 
one  who  was  obscure,  a  mere  com- 
mon man  of  business,  she  would  not 
have  minded  it.  But  in  the  course 
of  a  week,  she  was  fully  informed  as 
to  the  history  of  the  new-comer. 
She  knew  he  belonged  to  one  of  the 
best  families  of  the  city ;  that  he  had 
been  rich,  and  might  become  so 
again ;  that,  till  recently,  he  had  been 
regarded  as  one  of  the  most  brilliant 
young  men  in  society ;  and  he  was  in- 
telligent, well-educated,  and  of  irre- 


proachable morals.  "  I  am  lost !" 
thought  she.  "  All  these  people  are 
linked  together  to  ruin  my  plans. 
This  M.  Louis  comes  here  as  an  en- 
gineer ?  .  .  .  Nonsense !  it  is  an 
arrangement  between  his  father  and 
Mr.  Smithson.  They  wish  him  to 
marry  mademoiselle.  What  a  con- 
trivance !  And  that  poor  Albert, 
what  will  become  of  him  ?  .  .  ." 

These  suspicions  quite  upset  her. 
She  resolved  to  make  inquiries,  in 
order  to  relieve  her  mind,  if  by 
chance  she  was  mistaken.  But 
whom  should  she  question  ?  .  .  .  Mr. 
Smithson  ?  .  .  .  That  must  not  be 
thought  of.  Eugenie  ?  Fanny 
made  the  attempt.  Eugenie,  with 
her  usual  coolness  and  wit,  replied  in 
such  a  way  that  Fanny  retreated 
every  time  more  uncertain  than  before. 

The  day  of  which  I  am  speaking — 
the  notable  day  of  the  dinner — 
Fanny,  out  of  patience,  could  endure 
it  no  longer.  She  resolved  to  carry 
matters  so  far  that,  whether  she  liked 
it  or  not,  her  mistress  would  be  forced 
to  revive  her  hopes,  or  utterly  de- 
stroy them.  Hardly  had  she  entered 
the  chamber,  before  she  opened  fire  : 

"  How  shall  I  arrange  mademoi- 
selle's hair  ?" 

"  As  usual." 

"  Then  we  will  dress  ft  differently 
this  afternoon  with  ribbons  and  flow- 
ers." 

"  Why  such  a  display  ?" 

"  Can  mademoiselle  have  forgotten 
it  is  the  day  of  the  great  dinner  ?" 

"Great  dinner?  What  do  you 
mean  by  such  nonsense,  Fanny  ? 
Why,  whom  are  we  to  have  at  our 
table  of  so  much  importance  ?  No- 
body is  invited  that  I  have  not 
known  a  long  time:  our  neighbor, 
M.  Daumier,  with  his  wife  and 
daughter,  Dr.  Ollivier,  and  M.  Du- 
paigne.  Really,  it  would  be  singu- 
lar for  me  to  receive  them  with  any 
ceremony." 


Madame  Agnes. 


"  Mademoiselle  has  not  named  all 
the  guests." 

"  Whom  have  I  forgotten  ?" 

"  M.  Louis  Beauvais." 

"Ah!  that  is  true.  I  overlooked 
him.  But  his  coming  will  not 
change  my  intention  to  remain  as  I 
am." 

These  words  were  uttered  in  a 
tone  of  perfect  indifference.  Fanny 
was  overjoyed,  but  careful  not  to 
manifest  it.  Then,  as  she  continued 
to  busy  herself  about  her  mistress, 
she  began  to  reflect.  "  She  does  not 
care  for  him,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  There  is  nothing  to  fear  for  the 
moment,  then.  But  who  knows  how 
it  may  be  by-and-by  ?  .  .  .  I  must  at 
once  find  out  if,  under  favorable  cir- 
cumstances, she  might  not  conceive 
an  affection  for  him,  and  try  to  pre- 
vent such  a  misfortune.  I  will  take 
the  other  side  to  find  out  the  truth." 

"  A  charming  young  man,  this  M. 
Louis,  and  quite  worthy  of  interest," 
said  she,  without  appearing  to  attach 
any  importance  to  her  words. 

"  What  do  you  find  so  charming 
in  him  ?" 

"  He  has  a  serious  air,  which  I 
like." 

"Yes;  it  might  even  be  called 
gloomy." 

"  He  may  ^vell  have." 

"Really!  Ah!  Fanny,  then  you 
know  his  history  ?" 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle ;  and  a  very 
curious  one  it  is." 

"  Well,  relate  it  to  me.  Only  sup- 
press the  details ;  you  always  give 
too  many." 

"  Three  months  ago,  M.  Louis  was 
the  finest  dancer  and  the  gayest 
young  man  in  the  city.  Unfor- 
tunately, these  young  men  are  not  al- 
ways remarkable  for  uniformity.  He 
lived  like  a  prince  for  six  years,  and 
one  fine  morning  found  himself  penni- 
less." 

"  And  what  did  he  do  then  ?  " 


"  They  say — I  am  umvilling  to  be- 
lieve it,  but  everybody  says  so — that 
he  tried  to  drown  himself." 

"  A  weak  brain.  That  is  not  to 
his  credit." 

"  They  also  say  that  M.  Barnier, 
the  journalist,  saved  him  at  the  risk 
of  his  life,  and  converted  him  so 
thoroughly  that  the  poor  fellow 
came  near  entering  a  monastery." 

"  A  queer  idea  !  That  shows  he 
has  more  imagination  than  reason !  " 

"  But  he  did  not  stick  to  his  first 
intention.  He  is  now  established 
here,  and  will  remain,  I  feel  sure,  .  .  . 
and  this  alarms  me  !  .  .  .  " 

"  Why  are  you  so  sure  ?  And  how 
can  this  assurance  cause  you  any 
alarm  ?  " 

"  That  is  a  secret.  Mademoiselle 
will  excuse  me  from  replying. 
Though  I  have  known  mademoiselle 
from  her  childhood,  she  intimidates 
me." 

"  Not  much,  Fanny." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  mademoi- 
selle, I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  You  understand  me  perfectly,  but 
I  have  to  dot  your  i's  for  you.  Well, 
I  will  do  so.  I  do  not  intimidate  you 
much,  I  say.  You  dare  not  tell  me 
what  you  mean,  but  you  give  me  a 
hint  of  it.  What  are  you  afraid  of? 
Tell  me.  I  insist  upon  it." 

"  As  mademoiselle  insists  upon  it, 
I  feel  obliged  to  tell  her  what  she 
wishes  to  know.  Mademoiselle  is 
not  to  be  resisted.  But  I  should  pre- 
fer keeping  it  to  myself.  If  it  were 
to  displease  mademoiselle  .  .  ." 

"  No;  go  on." 

"  Well,  then,  mademoiselle,  I  have 
everything  to  fear  !  This  young  man 
has  lost  his  property.  .  .  .  He  passes 
himself  off  here  as  a  creditable  per- 
so*n.  .  .  .  He  has  secret  de- 
signs .  .  ." 

"  What  designs  ?  " 

"  Mademoiselle  puts  me  in  an  awk 
ward  position.  ...  It  is  such  a  rtcC 


Madame  Agnes. 


cate  point  to  speak  to  mademoiselle 
about." 

"  That  M.  Beauvais  aspires  to  my 
hand  through  interested  motives  ?  " 

"  I  should  not  have  dared  say 
so." 

"Well,  that  would  be  audacious! 
I  accept  a  man  for  a  husband  whom 
poverty,  disgraceful  poverty,  alone 
inclines  towards  me  !  " 

"  Without  doubt,  he  has  committed 
many  faults,  but  there  is  mercy  for 
the  greatest  sinner,  and  he  is  so  pious 
just  now !  " 

"  I  know — he  goes  to  church  often, 
even  during  the  week.  That  is  his 
own  affair.  That  is  enough,  Fanny. 
Let  there  be  no  further  question  of 
this  between  us.  You  take  too  much 
interest  in  what  concerns  me,  as  I 
have  told  you  before.  I  am  astonish- 
ed you  should  force  me  to  repeat  it." 

Fanny,  thus  dismissed,  went  away 
furious  and  more  uneasy  than  ever. 
But  if  she  could  have  read  Eugenie's 
inmost  thoughts,  her  fury  would  have 
turned  to  joy.  As  soon  as  she  was 
gone,  Eugenie  seated  herself  in  a  low 
arm-chair,  and  began,  as  she  some- 
times laughingly  said,  to  put  her 
thoughts  in  order. 

"That  malicious  girl  is  no  fool," 
he  said  to  herself.  "This  young 


man  may  have  entered  my  father's 
service  from  secret  motives,  perhaps 
suggested  by  his  family.  Who  knows 
but  my  parents  themselves  smile  on 
his  projects  ?  My  father  seems  to  be 
on  the  best  of  terms  with  his  father. 
Perhaps  they  have  come  to  an  under- 
standing with  a  mere  word,  or  even 
without  speaking  at  all.  That  would 
be  too  much !  Well,  if  it  is  so,  if 
the  whole  world  conspires  against 
me,  I  will  defeat  their  calculations. 
...  In  the  first  place,  I  do  not  fancy 
this  M.  Louis,  and  I  will  soon  let 
him  see  it,  as  well  as  those  who  favor 
him.  The  mere  supposition  that  I 
could  ever  be  his  wife  makes  me  in- 
dignant and  angry.  I  marry  a  man 
who  has  ruined  himself,  who  only 
aimed  at  my  fortune,  and  would 
squander  it  in  a  few  years !  I  give 
my  heart  to  a  man  who  does  not  love 
me,  and,  even  if  he  sincerely  vowed 
he  loved  me,  would  be  in  such  a  po- 
sition that  I  should  always  have  rea- 
son to  doubt  it !  And,  besides,  what 
a  weak  mind  this  hare-brained  fellow 
must  have  to  play  so  many  roles  one 
after  the  other!  I  wish  my  husband 
to  have  purer  motives  and  a  stronger 
head.  This  man  must  have  a  false 
heart.  He  is  an  intriguer,  and  that 
includes  everything.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XII. 


MORE   ABOUT   EUGENIE — A   REAL   FRIEND. 


That  evening,  Louis  found  himself 
for  the  first  time  in  the  midst  of  the 
Smithson  family.  We  often  thought 
of  him  that  night,  and  wished  we 
could  know  at  once  what  kind  of  a 
reception  he  had  met  with,  especially 
from  Eugenie.  But  we  were  obliged 
to  wait  for  these  interesting  details 
till  Louis  could  relate  them  himself. 
We  did  not  have  to  wait  long.  When 
he  came,  he  was  gloomy  and  dispirit- 
ed. Victor  pretended  not  to  ob- 
serve his  dejection. 


"  Well,"  said  he,  "  you  have  now 
made  the  acquaintance  of  the  Smith- 
sons.  What  do  you  think  of  them  ?" 

"  A  good  many  things,  but  I  can 
sum  up  my  impressions  in  a  word  : 
they  are  queer  people  !" 

"  Indeed !  did  they  hurt  your  feel- 
ings in  any  way  ?" 

"  Yes ;  .  .  .  yet  I  do  wrong  to 
be  angry,  or  even  to  be  astonished. 
I  should  have  expected  it." 

"  This  great  dinner,  then,  did  not 
turn  out  as  I  hoped — a  means  of  ce- 


Madame  Agnes. 


43 


meriting  amicable,  if  not  affectionate, 
relations  between  you  ?" 

"  By  no  means." 

"  You  greatly  astonish  me  !" 

"  It  is  just  so.  ...  The  way 
things  were  managed  shows  the 
Smithsons  to  be  sagacious  people. 
They  invited  me,  in  order  to  make 
me  understand  at  once  the  position 
I  hold  in  their  estimation — that  of 
engineer  and  superintendent,  nothing 
more." 

"  I  am  really  amazed  !" 

"  And  I  am  equally  so.  I  did  not 
expect  it,  but  the  fact  is  too  evident." 

"  Well,  tell  me  all  that  happened, 
without  omitting  anything." 

"  Not  to  omit  anything  would 
make  the  story  long,  and  it  is  not 
worth  the  trouble.  I  will  briefly  re- 
late what  I  think  will  interest  you, 
that  you  may  have  an  idea  of  this 
first  visit.  There  were  but  four  other 
guests,  whom  I  only  regarded  with 
indifference.  They  were  neither 
pleasing  nor  displeasing,  so  it  is  use- 
less to  speak  of  them.  We  will  con- 
fine ourselves  to  the  leading  members 
of  the  household.  I  will  first  speak 
of  the  real  though  unacknowledged 
head.  My  mind  is  made  up  on  this 
point.  As  I  saw  from  the  first,  it  is 
Mile.  Eugenie  who  rules  the  house." 

"  Even  her  father  ?" 

"  Yes ;  even  her  father ;  not  as 
openly  and  directly  as  she  does  her 
mother,  but  as  unmistakably  by  dint 
of  management." 

"  Is  she  really  a  superior  woman, 
as  I  have  been  told,  or  is  she  merely 
shrewd  and  imperious  ?" 

"  Oh !  no.  Those  who  have 
sounded  her  praises  have  not  deceiv- 
ed you.  She  is  by  no  means  a  com- 
mon person.  In  the  first  place,  it 
must  be  confessed  she  is  really  hand- 
some. There  is  especially  a  rare  in- 
telligence and  dignity  in  her  appear- 
ance. She  converses  well,  often  says 
something  profound,  and  is  always 


interesting.  She  is  a  lover  of  the 
arts,  and  all  she  says,  all  she  does, 
eyinces  an  elevated  mind." 

"  Such  a  person  as  is  seldom  met 
with,  then — a  model  of  perfection  ?" 

"  She  has  all  that  is  necessary  to 
become  so,  ...  and  yet  she  is 
not.  One  fault  spoils  everything, 
one  or  two  at  the  most,  but  they  are 
serious.  She  is  proud  or  egotistical, 
perhaps  both." 

"  Are  you  not  too  severe  upon  her  ? 
You  scarcely  know  her,  and  yet  you 
are  very  decided  in  your  condemna- 
tion." 

"  I  have  reasons  for  my  opinion. 
You  shall  judge  for  yourself.  My 
position  with  respect  to  Mr.  Smithson 
is  very  trying.  He  knows,  and 
doubtless  the  rest  of  the  family  too, 
all  the  follies  I  have  committed  with- 
in a  few  years,  and  how  I  regret 
them.  He  cannot  be  ignorant,  nor 
they  either,  that  the  office  I  hold  un- 
der him,  however  respectable,  must 
awaken  a  susceptibility  that  is  natural 
and  excusable,  even  if  exaggerated. 
In  this  state  of  things,  I  had  a  right 
to  expect  that  Mr.  Smithson  and  his 
family,  if  they  were  really  people  of 
any  soul  or  breeding,  would  treat  me 
with  a  delicacy  that,  without  com- 
promising them,  would  put  me  at 
my  ease." 

"  I  am  of  your  opinion.  And  have 
they  been  wanting  therein  ?" 

"  Yes ;  and  in  a  very  disagreeable 
way.  It  is  little  things  that  betray 
shades  of  feeling,  and  it  was  thereby 
I  was  hurt.  In  leaving  the  salon  for 
the  dining-room,  each  guest  offered 
his  arm  to  a  lady.  Mr.  Smithson, 
his  daughter,  and  myself  were  the 
last.  Mile.  Eugenie  took  her  fa- 
ther's arm  with  an  eagerness  that  was 
really  unciv.il." 

"  It  was  from  timidity,  perhaps." 

"She  timid?  ...  I  must 
undeceive  you  !  She  certainly  is  not 
bold,  but  she  is  far  from  being  timid. 


44 


Madame  Agnes. 


At  table,  I  found  myself  consigned  to 
the  lowest  place.  None  of  the  guests 
were  great  talkers,  and  more  than 
once  I  took  part  in  the  conversation. 
Mile.  Smithson  undisguisedly  pre- 
tended not  to  listen  to  me.  She  even 
interrupted  me  by  speaking  of  some- 
thing quite  foreign  to  what  I  was 
saying." 

"  Her  education  has  been  defec- 
tive." 

"  Pardon  me,  she  is  perfectly  well- 
bred.  To  see  her  an  hour  would 
convince  you  of  this.  When  she  is 
deficient  in  politeness,  it  is  because 
she  wishes  to  be." 

"  I  believe  you,  but  cannot  com- 
prehend it  all." 

"  I  have  not  told  you  everything. 
The  worst  is  to  come.  Towards  the 
end  of  dinner,  the  conversation  fell  on 
a  certain  cousin  of  Mile.  Eugenie's. 
His  name,  I  think,  is  Albert.  She 
praised  him  highly,  to  which  I  have 
nothing  to  say  ;  but  she  added — and 
this  was  very  unreasonable  or  very 
malicious — that  this  dear  cousin  did 
not  imitate  the  young  men  of  fashion, 
,who  were  extravagant  in  their  ex- 
penditures, acquired  nothing,  and 
ended  by  falling  into  pitiful  embar- 
rassment. I  was,  I  confess,  provok- 
ed and  angry.  I  felt  strongly  tempt- 
ed to  make  Mile.  Smithson  feel  the 
rudeness  and  unkindness  of  her  re- 
mark. But  I  bethought  myself  that 
I  was  a  Christian,  and  that,  after  all, 
the  most  genuine  proof  of  repentance 
is  humility.  Therefore  I  restrained 
my  feelings,  and  remained  silent. 
The  rest  of  the  evening  I  cut  a  sorry 
figure.  Mile.  Smithson  seemed  per- 
fectly unconcerned  as  to  what  I 
might  think." 

"  Her  behavior  is  so  inexplica- 
ble," said  Victor,  "  that,  if  I  had  these 
details  from  any  one  else,  I  should 
refuse  to  believe  them." 

(At  this  part  of  her  story,  Mme. 
Agnes  made  a  remark  it  may  be  well 


to  repeat  to  the  reader :  "  You  must 
bear  in  mind,"  said  she,  "  that 
neither  Victor  nor  I  then  had  any 
means  of  knowing  what  I  related  a 
few  moments  ago  as  to  Fanny's  pro- 
jects and  Eugenie's  suspicions ;  and 
we  were  completely  ignorant  of  her 
turn  of  mind  and  romantic  notions.") 

"  Well,"  resumed  Louis,  "  her  way 
of  acting,  at  which  you  are  astonish- 
ed, does  not  amaze  me.  I  can  easily 
explain  it.  Mile.  Eugenie  imagines 
that  I  aspire  to  her  hand,  or  rather, 
to  her  fortune.  She  is  mistaken  : 
I  aspire  to  neither.  I  acknowledge 
she  has  a  combination  of  qualities 
calculated  to  please  me,  but  her  dis- 
dain excites  my  indignation.  I  mean, 
therefore,  to  put  a  speedy  end  to  her 
injurious  suspicions.  Then  I  will 
leave  the  place.  I  have  already  be- 
gun to  put  my  project  into  execution.'' 

"  Do  not  be  precipitate,  I  beg  of 
you.  It  is  a  delicate  matter.  What 
steps  have  you  taken  ?" 

"  None  of  any  importance.  This 
morning,  the  work-rooms  being  clos- 
ed as  usual  on  Sunday,  I  went,  before 
Mass,  to  sketch  a  delightful  view  not 
a  hundred  steps  from  the  manufac- 
tory. I  was  wholly  absorbed  in  my 
work,  when  Mile.  Smithson  approach- 
ed. I  will  not  deny  I  was  moved  at 
seeing  her." 

"  Then  you  are  no  longer  indiffer- 
ent to  her  ?" 

"  Oh  !  I  think  I  can  vouch  for  the 
perfect  indifference  of  my  sentiments 
for  the  moment.  But  would  this 
coldness  towards  her  always  last  if 
I  did  not  watch  over  my  heart  ?  .  .  . 
She  has  so  many  captivating  quali- 
ties !  I  have  seen  so  few  women  to 
be  compared  to  her !  No,  no ;  I  will 
not  allow  myself  to  be  captivated 
unawares ;  that  would  be  too  great  a 
misfortune  for  me.  ...  I  have  resolv- 
ed to  raise  myself  in  her  estimation. 
I  will  clearly  convince  her  she  has 
calumniated  me  in  her  heart ;  that  I 


Madame  Agnes. 


45 


am  in  no  respect  the  man  she  thinks  ; 
and,  when  I  have  done  that,  I  shall 
leave.  So,  when  she  approached,  I 
bowed  to  her  with  respect  and  polite- 
ness. 

"  '  You  are  sketching,  monsieur  ?  ' 
she  said,  bending  doujai  to  look  at  my 
work.  '  It  is  charming.' 

"'It  ought  to  be,  mademoiselle. 
There  could  not  be  a  landscape  bet- 
ter calculated  to  inspire  an  artist. 
But  while  I  am  admiring  what  is  be- 
fore me,  I  regret  my  unskilfulness  in 
depicting  it.  It  is  my  own  fault.  I 
have  so  long  neglected  the  art  of 
drawing.  I  have  acted  like  so  many 
other  young  men,  and  lost  some  of 
the  best  years  of  my  life.' 

"  She  understood  the  allusion — per- 
haps too  direct — to  her  sally  of  the 
other  day.  A  slight  blush  rose  to  her 
face.  '  One  would  not  suspect  it, 
monsieur,'  she  said.  '  But  as  for 
that,  even  if  you  have  lost  your  skill, 
it  can  easily  be  regained  in  the  midst 
of  the  delightful  views  in  this  vicinity.' 

"  '  It  is  true,  mademoiselle  !  A  love- 
lier region  it  would  be  difficult  to 
find.  I  wish  some  of  these  views  for 
my  sketch-book,  as  I  may  leave  any 
day.' 

"  I  uttered  these  words  in  a  cool, 
deliberate  tone,  and  then  resumed  my 
work.  Mile.  Eugenie  seemed  to 
wish  to  continue  the  conversation, 
but,  slightly  abashed,  had  not  the 
courage,  I  think,  to  make  any  advan- 
ces. I  bowed  ceremoniously,  and 
she  went  away.  My  opinion  is,  she 
stopped  out  of  mere  curiosity.  She 
had  shown  how  little  she  esteemed 
me,  and  was  not  afraid  of  my  attach- 
ing any  importance  to  her  speaking 
to  me.  Such  a  course  favors  my 
plans." 

"  Wonderfully !  But — nothing  head- 
long! Forbear  leaving  Mr.  Smith- 
son  too  precipitately.  You  are  now 
near  your  family.  Time  may  show 
things  to  you  in  a  different  light. 


And,  above  all,  it  seems  to  me  great 
good  can  be  done  there,  and  more 
easily  than  in  most  places.  Tell  me 
something  of  your  workmen.  Have 
you  thought  of  the  two  projects  we 
talked  about  the  other  day  ?  Have 
you  spoken  to  Mr.  Smithson  about 
them  ?  " 

"  No ;  it  seems  to  me  they  would 
not  particularly  please  him.  I  really 
do  not  know  whether  this  English- 
man has  any  heart  or  not.  I  am  in- 
clined to  regard  him  as  an  egotist, 
merely  employing  men  to  increase 
his  wealth,  and  not  very  solicitous 
about  their  welfare." 

"  I  must  undeceive  you.  I  have 
reason  to  think  Mr.  Smithson  a  very 
different  person  from  what  you  sup- 
pose. We  have  not  many  Protestants 
here,  you  know,  but  still  there  are  a 
few.  Among  them  are  some  who 
are  really  actuated  by  good  motives. 
They  assembled  a  few  months  ago  at 
the  house  of  Mr.  Carrand,  the  rich 
lawyer  you  are  acquainted  with. 
They  wished  to  establish  a  charitable 
society,  in  imitation  of  our  Conferen- 
ces of  S.  Vincent  de  Paul,  but  did 
not  succeed  in  their  plans.  To  effect 
such  an  enterprise,  there  must  be  the 
zeal  and  charity  that  animate  the 
Catholic  Church.  To  her  alone  God 
grants  the  sublime  privilege  of  de- 
voting herself  with  constancy  and 
success  to  the  physical  and  moral 
welfare  of  mankind.  Though  their 
project  remained  unfruitful,  it  reveal- 
ed a  generosity  much  to  the  credit 
of  the  Protestants  interested  in  it 
Mr.  Smithson  himself  was  one  of  the 
foremost  on  this  occasion  to  manifest 
how  earnestly  he  had  at  heart  the 
welfare  of  the  poor ;  and  this  with- 
out any  evidence  of  being  influenced 
by  selfish  motives." 

"  What  you  say  surprises  me,  but 
it  gives  me  great  pleasure.  I  shall 
henceforth  be  less  reserved  with 
him." 


Madame  Agnes. 


"And  you  will  do  well.  I  even 
advise  you  to  consult  Mme.  and 
Mile.  Smithson  about  your  charita- 
ble plans.  They  are  Catholics,  and 
will  comprehend  you  at  once." 

"  I  have  no  great  confidence  in 
their  piety." 

"  My  dear  friend,  I  regard  you 
with  the  affection  of  a  brother  .  .  ." 

"  Say,  rather,  of  a  father,  as  you 
are,  in  one  sense,  having  saved  my 
life ;  and  also  by  another  title,  in 
aiding  me  to  become  an  earnest 
Christian,  such  as  I  once  was." 

"  Well,  then,  let  us  use  a  medium 
term.  My  regard  for  you  shall  be 
that  of  an  elder  brother.  I  thank 
you  for  allowing  me  this  title.  My 
affection  for  you  makes  me  take  an 
interest  in  all  that  concerns  you.  I 
have  obtained  very  exact  information 
respecting  the  Smithson  ladies  from 
a  reliable  source.  They  are  not  as 
pious  as  they  might  be,  but  they  do 
not  lack  faith,  and  they  fulfil  the  ab- 
solute requirements  of  the  church. 
I  know  that  Mile.  Eugenie  is  keenly 
alive  to  the  poetical  side  of  religion. 
You  have,  I  believe,  an  important 
r$le  to  fill  in  the  family  and  in 
the  whole  establishment.  You  can 
do  good  to  every  one  there,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  to  yourself.  The 
course  to  be  pursued  seems  to  me 
very  simple.  I  feel  sure  Mile.  Smith- 
son  has  some  misconception  concern- 
ing you — some  injurious  suspicions. 
Endeavor  to  remove  them  from  her 
mind.  Act  prudently,  but  as  prompt- 
ly as  possible.  That  done,  induce 
her  to  take  an  interest  in  the  work 
you  are  going  to  undertake.  She 
will  lead  her  father  to  participate  in 
it.  In  a  short  time,  you  will  see  the 
good  effect  on  your  workmen,  and 
derive  from  your  charitable  efforts  the 
reward  that  never  fails  to  follow — an 
ever-increasing  love  of  doing  good, 
and  a  livelier  desire  of  sanctifying 
your  own  soul.  The  exercise  of 


charity  is  of  all  things  the  most  salu« 
tary.  I  can  safely  predict  that  the 
Smithson  ladies  will  both  become 
pious  if  they  second  you;  and  as 
for  you,  you  will  be  more  and  more 
strengthened  in  your  good  resolu- 
tions. Who  k^iows  ? — perhaps  you 
may  have  the  sweet  surprise  of  seeing 
Mr.  Smithson  converted  when  he 
sees  that  Catholicism  alone  enables 
us  to  confer  on  others  a  real  benefit." 

"  These  are  fine  projects,  and  very 
attractive ;  but  I  foresee  many  obsta- 
cles and  dangers." 

"  What  ones  ?" 

"  Of  all  kinds.  First,  I  expose 
myself  to  conceive  an  affection  for 
Mile.  Smithson  it  would  be  prudent  to 
guard  against.  She  does  not  like  me. 
I  imagine  she  loves  some  one  else — 
the  cousin  she  praises  so  willingly." 

"  A  supposition  without  proof! 
What  I  have  heard  from  others,  as 
well  as  yourself,  convinces  me  that 
Mile.  Smithson  has  not  yet  made  her 
choice.  The  praise  she  so  publicly 
lavishes  on  her  cousin  is,  in  my  opin 
ion,  a  proof  of  her  indifference  to 
wards  him." 

"  But  if  I  were  to  love  her — love 
her  seriously,  and  she  continued  to 
disdain  me ;  if  her  prejudice  against 
me  could  not  be  overcome  ?  .  .  ." 

"  I  should  be  the  first  to  regret  it. 
But  listen  to  me.  You  were  once 
truly  pious,  my  friend,  and  wish  to 
become  so  again.  This  desire  is  sin- 
cere, I  know.  Well,  it  is  time  to 
take  a  correct  view  of  life.  For  the 
most  of  us,  especially  those  who  are 
called  to  effect  some  good  in  the 
world,  life  is  only  one  long  sacrifice. 
Jesus  Christ  suffered  and  died  to  re- 
deem mankind;  the  way  he  chose 
for  himself  he  also  appointed  for 
those  who  become  his  disciples.  It 
is  by  self-sacrifice  that  we  acquire 
the  inappreciable  gift  of  being  useful 
to  our  fellow-men.  Do  not  cherish 
any  illusion  with  regard  to  this  1" 


Madame  Agnes. 


47 


Louis  and  I  exchanged  a  sorrow- 
ful glance  as  Victor  spoke.  Poor 
dear  fellow !  how  he  realized  what 
he  was  saying !  He  was  about  to 
die  at  thirty-six  years  of  age,  in  the 
very  height  of  his  usefulness,  and 
this  because  he  likewise  had  volunta- 
rily chosen  the  rough  path  of  sacri- 
fice that  was  leading  even  unto 
death ! 

"  My  friend,"  replied  Louis,  "  what 
you  say  is  true.  I  feel  it.  You  are 
yourself  an  eloquent  proof  of  it — you 
whom  I  have  stopped  in  the  midst 
of  your  career.  .  .  ." 

"  Do  not  talk  so,"  interrupted  Vic- 
tor ;  "  you  pain  me.  Your  manner 
of  interpreting  my  words  makes  me 
regret  uttering  them.  Do  not  mis- 
take my  meaning.  What  I  would 
say  may  be  summed  up  thus :  to  ef- 
fect a  reformation  in  Mr.  Smithson's 
manufactory,  where  there  are  many 
bad  men  who  corrupt  the  good ;  to 
enkindle  a  spirit  of  piety  in  the  hearts 
of  the  Smithson  ladies,  by  associating 
them  in  the  good  you  are  to  effect. 
Whatever  may  be  the  result,  devote 
yourself  to  this  work  without  any  re- 
serve. You  must  not  hesitate ! 
Your  sufferings,  if  you  have  any  to 
endure,  will  not  be  without  fruit,  and 
perhaps  God  may  not  suffer  them  to 
be  of  long  duration." 

"  You  have  decided  me.  I  will 
begin  to-morrow.  I  will  commence 
with  the  evening-school,  and  by  visit- 
ing the  most  destitute  families." 


"  Do  not  forget  that  the  destitu- 
tion most  to  be  pitied  is  moral  desti- 
tution. Visit  those  who  have  no- 
thing, but  especially  those  who  are 
depraved." 

Louis  went  away  in  a  totally  dif- 
ferent frame  of  mind  from  that  with 
which  he  had  come.  Victor,  in  his 
gentle  way,  had  increased  his  esteem 
for  Mr.  Smithson,  and  inflamed  him 
with  the  zeal — the  ardent  desire  of 
usefulness  with  which  he  was  filled 
himself.  When  he  was  gone,  Victor 
and  I  talked  a  long  time  about  him. 
I  confessed  I  had  no  great  faith  in 
his  perseverance.  Victor  replied : 
"  His  mother's  piety  and  careful 
training  must  lead  to  his  thorough 
conversion.  And  how  he  has  al- 
ready changed !  He  realizes  the 
worthlessness  of  the  aims  to  which 
he  once  gave  himself  up.  There  is 
no  fear  of  his  receding.  He  has 
taken  the  surest  means  of  persever- 
ing— the  apostolic  work  of  doing 
good.  Nevertheless,  I  acknowledge 
I  wish  he  could  find  some  one  to  aid 
him.  And  what  a  powerful  aid  it 
would  be  if  he  loved  and  felt  him- 
self loved !  Ardent  as  he  is,  he 
would  communicate  his  piety  to  the 
object  of  his  affection.  And  how 
much  good  would  result  from  their 
combined  efforts !  But  I  fear  it  will 
not  be  thus !  Our  poor  friend  will, 
perhaps,  purchase  the  right  of  win- 
ning a  few  souls  at  the  expense  of 
his  own  happiness." 


CHAPTER        XIII. 

LOUIS  AT  WORK. 


Louis  took  two  whole  days  to  re- 
flect on  the  important  subject  of  his 
conversation  with  my  husband. 
Was  the  profound  love  he  subse- 
quently felt  for  Eugenie  already 
springing  up  in  his  heart  ?  Such  is 
my  opinion,  though  I  dare  not  say 
BO  positively.  He  probably  was  not 


conscious  himself  of  the  real  state  of 
his  mind.  Since  that  time,  I  have 
often  dwelt  on  all  that  took  place 
then  and  afterwards,  and  it  has  al- 
ways seemed  to  me  that,  from  the 
very  moment  Louis  first  knew  and 
appreciated  Mile.  Smithson,  he  con- 
ceived an  affection  for  her  as  seri- 


Madame  Agnes. 


ous  as  it  was  sudden.  This  affection 
was  one  of  those  that  seem  destined, 
from  the  beginning,  to  a  continual  in- 
crease. Does  this  mean  that  I  have 
adopted  the  foolish  and  erroneous 
theory  of  novel  writers,  who  regard 
love  as  an  overmastering  passion  to 
which  one  is  forced  at  all  hazards  to 
submit?  .  .  .  Neither  religion 
nor  reality  will  allow  one  to  yield  to 
such  an  error.  But  they  do  not  hin- 
der me  from  believing  there  are  incli- 
nations and  affections  that  all  at 
once  assert  themselves  with  so  much 
force  that,  if  one  would  not  be 
speedily  overcome  by  passion,  he 
must  at  once  raise  an  insurmount- 
able barrier  against  it,  such  as  flight, 
reason  armed  with  contempt,  and, 
what  is  a  thousand  times  better  than 
all — prayer.  Such,  in  my  opinion, 
was  the  love  Louis  at  once  con- 
ceived for  Mile.  Smithson. 

How  shall  I  account  for  his  being 
so  captivated,  when  Eugenie  had 
wounded  him  so  deeply,  and  was  so 
proud  and  every  way  original  ? 
For  he  too  was  proud,  and  his  pride 
was  allied  with  an  unvarying  sim- 
plicity which  by  no  means  accorded 
with  Mile.  Smithson's  turn  of  mind. 
...  I  account  for  this  in  many  ways. 
Eugenie  had  very  distinguished  man- 
ners. This  naturally  pleased  Louis, 
for  he  had  been  brought  up  by  a 
mother  who  was  a  model  of  distinc- 
tion. Eug6nie  had  a  noble  soul. 
Her  opinions  were  not  always  cor- 
rect, but  they  were  always  of  an  ele- 
vated nature.  She  was,  it  is  true, 
peculiar  and  romantic,  and  Louis 
was  not.  But  he  liked  all  these  pe- 
culiarities in  her.  They  seemed 
to  him  charming.  Lastly,  and  this 
is  one  of  my  strongest  reasons,  I 
think  it  was  because  Louis  felt  him- 
self worthy  of  being  Eugenie's  hus- 
band, and,  seeing  himself  slighted  by 
her,  was  the  more  strongly  tempted 
to  win  her. 


As  Victor  and  I  were  his  confiden- 
tial friends,  he  kept  us  informed  of  all 
his  proceedings,  and,  I  may  safely  say, 
even  of  his  thoughts.  It  is  therefore 
easy  for  me  to  retrace  the  story  of  his 
love,  which  1  will  do  without  any 
exaggeration. 

But  first,  let  us  return  to  his  chari- 
table projects,  and  the  way  in  which 
he  executed  them.  Louis  was  not 
merely  an  engineer  in  Mr.  Smithson's 
establishment,  but  a  Christian,  and 
all  the  more  zealous  because  he  was 
anxious  to  expiate  his  past  errors. 
He  knew  by  experience  to  what  an 
abyss  the  passions  lead,  and  was  de- 
sirous of  warning  others.  If  he  had 
been  a  man  of  ordinary  mind  and 
heart,  he  would  no  doubt  have  been 
animated  by  entirely  different  motives. 
After  his  ruin,  and  rescue  from  a 
watery  grave,  desirous  of  regaining 
not  only  his  father's  esteem,  but  that 
of  the  world,  he  might  have  chosen 
the  very  position  he  now  occupied, 
but  he  would  have  taken  care  to  live 
as  easily  as  possible.  He  would  per- 
haps have  sought  to  win  Eugenie's 
affections,  and  in  the  end  would  have 
thought  only  of  her  and  labored  for 
her  alone.  Such  a  life  would  not  be 
worth  relating.  The  lives  of  ordinary 
men  are  as  unworthy  of  interest  is 
the  egotism  that  is  the  mainspring  of 
their  actions. 

Louis'  life  was  a  very  different  one. 
That  is  why  I  am  desirous  of  making 
it  known.  But  do  not  suppose  his 
nature  was  thus  transformed  in  an 
instant.  God  did  not  work  one  of 
those  miracles  that  consist  in  the  com- 
plete, instantaneous  change  of  a 
man's  character.  Our  faults  veil  our 
better  qualities,  but  do  not  suppress 
them  ;  so  a  return  to  piety  gives  them 
new  brilliancy,  but  does  not  create 
them.  Louis,  as  I  afterwards  learned, 
had  in  his  youth  manifested  uncom- 
mon elevation  and  purity  of  mind, 
and  the  piety  of  a  saint.  After  his 


Madame  Agnes. 


49 


arrival  at  manhood,  deprived  of  his 
mother's  influence,  and  led  away  by 
his  passions,  he  placed  no  bounds  to 
his  follies.  •  But  suddenly  arrested  in 
the  midst  of  his  disorderly  career, 
providentially  saved  at  the  very 
moment  of  being  for  ever  lost,  he  at 
once  broke  loose  from  his  pernicious 
•labits.  Like  a  traveller  who  returns 
to  the  right  .path  after  going  astray 
for  awhile,  he  resumed  his  course  in 
the  way  of  perfection  with  as  much 
ardor  as  if  he  had  never  left  it.  There 
was  only  one  reproach  to  be  made 
against  him  at  the  onset.  With  his 
earnest  nature  and  tendency  to  ex- 
tremes, he  manifested  too  openly  the 
interior  operations  of  grace.  The 
difference  between  the  young  exqui- 
site whom  everybody  knew,  and  the 
new  convert  observed  of  all  eyes,  was 
rather  too  marked.  Louis'  serious 
and  somewhat  stern  air,  his  austere 
look,  and  his  habitual  reserve,  repelled 
those  who  had  no  faith  in  his  entire 
conversion.  Thence  arose  back- 
bitings,  suspicions,  and  accusations 
of  hypocrisy  which  did  not  come  to 
our  poor  friend's  ears,  but  were  the 
cause  of  more  than  one  annoyance. 
I  must,  however,  acknowledge,  to 
Mr.  Smithson's  credit,  that  he  showed 
a  great  deal  of  charity  for  Louis  at 
that  time.  If  he  sometimes  accused 
him  of  undue  zeal,  he  was  from  the 
first  disposed  to  believe  it  sincere. 

I  will  briefly  relate  what  Louis 
accomplished  during  the  few  weeks 
subsequent  to  his  last  conversation 
with  Victor.  My  husband  had  ad- 
vised him  not  to  undertake  anything 
till  he  had  consulted  Mr.  Smithson. 
Louis  followed  his  advice,  and  begged 
an  interview  with  his  employer.  It 
was  then  in  the  month  of  June.  The 
conversation  took  place  without  wit- 
nesses, in  the  open  air,  on  a  fine 
summer  evening.  I  give  it  as  related 
by  Louis. 

"  Monsieur,"    said    he,     "  I    am 


aware  of  your  interest  in  benevolent 
objects.  The  workmen  you  employ, 
and  whom  I  superintend  under  your 
orders,  are  not  in  your  eyes  mere  in- 
struments for  the  increase  of  wealth, 
but  men  to  whom  you  wish  to  be  as 
useful  as  circumstances  will  allow." 

Mr.  Smithson  was  never  lavish  of 
his  words.  He  made  a  sign  of  as- 
sent, and  appeared  pleased  with  what 
was  said. 

Louis  continued :  "  I  also  am  de- 
sirous of  being  useful  to  my  fellow- 
men*  I  have  done  many  foolish 
things,  and  would  like  to  preserve 
others  from  similar  mistakes,  for  the 
consequences  are  often  fatal.  With 
your  permission,  I  will  not  content 
myself  with  aiding  you  in  the  man- 
agement of  the  mill,  but  beg  the  hon- 
or of  being  associated,  in  proportion 
to  my  ability,  with  all  the  good  you. 
are  desirous  of  doing." 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Mr.  Smithson,. 
"your  unexpected  offer  somewhat 
embarrasses  me.  I  am  quite  ready 
to  accede  to  your  wishes,  but  could 
not,  in  truth,  consider  you  my  co-la- 
borer. What  I  have  hitherto  done 
has  been  but  little,  but  I  know  not 
what  else  to  do.  I  assist  the  needy, 
and  give  good  advice  here  and  there  ; 
that  is  all.  You  can  follow  my  ex- 
ample. I  shall  be  glad  Is  that 
what  you  wish  ?  Or  do  you  happen 
to  have  anything  better  and  more  ex- 
tensive to  propose  ?  If  so,  go  on.  I 
am  ready  to  hear  it" 

"  Yes,  monsieur ;  I  have  some 
other  plans  to  suggest." 

"  State  them  without  any  hesita- 
tion. I  only  hope  they  are  of  a  na- 
ture to  second  my  views.  The  first 
condition  for  that  is,  to  propose 
only  what  is  simple  and  practical. 
Doubtless  too  great  an  effort  cannot 
be  made  at  this  time  to  aid  and  im- 
prove our  workmen,  both  for  their 
own  interest  and  for  ours.  Every- 
thing is  dear.  The  country  is  in  a 


Madame  Agnes. 


ferment.  Among  those  we  employ, 
there  are  a  number  of  turbulent  fel- 
lows and  many  wretchedly  poor." 

"  Precisely  so.  What  I  wish  is, 
to  aid  the  needy,  and  reform  the 
bad." 

"  Your  design  is  worthy  of  all 
praise — as  a  theory ;  .  .  .  but  its 
realization  will  be  difficult,  not  to  say 
impossible.  Listen  to  me,  monsieur ; 
I  have  a  frank  avowal  to  make.  I 
have  been  engaged  in  this  business 
but  a  short  time.  I  know  the  com- 
mon people  but  little.  I  belong  to  a 
country  and  a  religion  that  have  a 
special  way  of  aiding  the  indigent. 
The  government  takes  charge  of  that 
with  us.  In  France,  it  is  different : 
private  individuals  take  part  in  it. 
You  find  me  therefore  greatly  em- 
barrassed. Enlighten  me,  if  you  can. 
I  ask  for  nothing  better." 

"  Well,  monsieur,  it  seems  to  me 
that  beneficence  should  be  exercised 
in  three  different  ways.  First,  it  is 
our  duty  to  come  to  the  assistance 
of  those  in  distress ;  .  .  .  only  I 
cannot,  in  this  respect,  do  all  I  would 
like.  ...  I  could  have  done  so 
once  .  .  .  now  .  .  ." 

"  Do  not  let  that  worry  you.  My 
purse  is  open  to  you  on  condition 
that  you  only  aid  those  whose  desti- 
tution you  can  personally  vouch  for. 
It  is  also  advisable  to  ascertain  what 
use  they  make  of  that  which  is  given 
them." 

"I  promise  this,  and  thank  you. 
No ;  it  is  not  sufficient  to  give  them 
money.  One  must  see  it  is  made  a 
good  use  of.  The  poor  should  be 
taught  to  double  their  resources  by 
economy.  The  assistance  of  the 
needy,  then,  is  the  first  benevolent 
effort  I  would  propose.  I  now  come 
to  moral  beneficence.  This  does  not 
refer  to  the  indigence  of  the  body, 
but  to  that  of  the  soul.  I  think  it 
especially  desirable  to  preserve  from 
corruption  those  of  our  workmen 


who  are  at  present  leading  upright 
lives,  particularly  the  young.  This 
does  not  hinder  me  from  thinking  it 
necessary  to  bring  those'  who  have 
gone  astray  under  good  influences." 

"  Fine  projects  !  I,  too,  have  made 
similar  ones,  as  I  said,  but  I  was  dis- 
couraged by  the  difficulty  of  execut- 
ing them.  What  means  do  you  pro- 
pose to  employ  ?" 

"  What  would  you  say  to  the  for- 
mation of  a  library  in  one  of  the 
rooms  of  the  manufactory — for  in- 
stance, that  which  overlooks  the 
river?  It  is  now  unoccupied.  The 
workmen  might  be  allowed  to  go 
there  and  read  in  the  evening,  and 
even  to  smoke,  if  they  like.  .  .  .  This 
library  could  be  used,  during  the  hours 
of  cessation  from  labor,  as  a  school- 
room, where  all  could  come  to  learn, 
in  a  social  way,  what  they  are  ignorant 
of. — Would  not  this  be  a  means  of 
keeping  them  away  from  the  wine- 
shops, and  afford  one  an  opportunity 
of  conversing  with  them,  and  giving 
them  good  advice — advice  which 
comes  from  the  heart  ?" 

"  I  like  the  idea.  It  really  seems 
to  me  you  have  conceived  a  happy 
combination  of  plans;  but  nothing 
can  be  done  without  a  person  to  put 
them  in  execution." 

"  I  will  do  it  if  you  will  allow  me. 
I  am  eager  to  try  the  experiment." 

"  Your  courage  and  enthusiasm 
will  soon  give  out.  At  every  step, 
you  will  meet  with  difficulties  impos- 
sible to  be  foreseen.  I  have  mingled 
only  a  little  with  the  working  classes, 
but  enough  to  know  they  are  difficult 
to  manage,  and  often  ungrateful  to 
those  who  try  to  be  useful  to  them." 

"  God  will  aid  me.  He  will  reward 
me,  and  they  may  too.  But  I  shall 
not  be  difficult  to  please.  If  some 
of  them  correspond  to  my  efforts,  it 
will  be  enough.  I  will  forget  the  in- 
gratitude of  the  rest." 

Mr.  Smithson  was  amazed  at  hii 


Madame  Agnes. 


zeal.  His  own  religion,  cold  and 
formal,  had  never  taught  him  to  take 
so  much  pains  for  those  who  might 
prove  ungrateful.  He  and  Louis 
separated  quite  pleased  with  each 
other.  Louis  felt  he  had  been  com- 
prehended. He  had  also  the  pro- 
mise of  assistance.  Mr.  Smithson, 
with  all  his  reserve,  was  captivated 
by  Louis'  enthusiasm  for  doing  good. 
But  though  he  had  promised  to  aid 
Louis,  he  pitied  him.  "  He  will  fail," 
he  said  to  himself. 

The  work  was  begun  a  few  days 
after,  thanks  to  the  co-operation  of 
Mr.  Smithson,  who  smoothed  away 
the  difficulties  inseparable  from  all 
beginnings.  At  seven  in  the  evening, 
Louis,  laying  aside  the  title  and  func- 
tions of  an  engineer,  became  the  friend 
and  teacher  of  the  workmen.  They 
assembled  in  a  large  room  where 
benches,  tables,  and  a  library  were 
arranged.  At  first  a  certain  number 
of  workmen  came  through  mere  curi- 
osity. They  found  what  they  did 
not  expect — a  teacher  who  was  com- 
petent, kind,  ready  to  converse  with 
thetfi  and  teach  them  what  they 
wished  to  learn,  and  this  with  a  hearti- 
ness quite  different  from  an  ordinary 
schoolmaster.  Louis  devoted  him- 
self with  so  much  pleasure  to  these 
evening  exercises  that  his  pupils  soon 
learned  to  like  them,  and  gave  so 
captivating  an  account  of  them  to 
the  rest  that  the  number  of  scholars 
increased  from  day  to  day.  Thus 
the  school  was  permanently  establish- 
ed without  much  delay,  and  number- 
ed about  thirty  men  of  all  ages  and 
varieties  of  character.  Louis  showed 
perfect  tact  in  profiting  by  so  happy 
a  commencement.  Every  evening, 
he  gave  oral  instructions,  sometimes 
on  historical  subjects,  sometimes  on 
a  question  of  moral  or  political  econ- 
omy. In  each  of  these  lectures,  the 
young  master  mingled  good  advice, 
which  was  willingly  listened  to, 


given,  as  it  was,  in  the  midst  of  in- 
structions that  excited  the  liveliest 
interest.  The  workmen  felt  they  were 
learning  a  thousand  things  they  could 
never  have  acquired  from  books. 
A  book  is  a  voiceless  teacher  that 
requires  too  much  application  from 
unaccustomed  pupils. 

Mr.  Smithson  watched  over  the 
development  of  this  work,  and  became 
more  and  more  interested  in  it  in 
proportion  as  its  success,  which  at 
first  he  had  doubted,  became  more 
probable,  and  its  utility  more  evident. 
At  the  same  time,  without  acknow- 
ledging it  to  himself,  suspicion  and 
distrust  began  to  spring  up  in  his 
heart.  Even  the  best  of  men  under 
certain  circumstances,  unless  check- 
ed by  profound  piety,  are  accessi- 
ble to  the  lowest  sentiments.  Mr. 
Smithson  began  to  be  jealous  of  his 
assistant,  and  even  to  fear  him. 

"  What !"  he  said  to  himself,"  shall 
he  succeed  in  a  work  I  dared  not 
undertake  myself!  He  will  acquire 
a  moral  influence  in  the  establishment 
superior  to  mine !  .  .  ."  Then,  as  his 
unjust  suspicions  increased:  "It  is 
not  the  love  of  doing  good  that  in- 
fluences him :  it  is  ambition,"  he 
thought. 

Louis  had  no  suspicion  of  what 
was  passing  in  his  employer's  mind, 
and  therefore  resolutely  continued  to 
pursue  the  course  he  had  begun. 
He  had  formerly  accompanied  his 
mother  in  her  visits  among  the  poor, 
and  thus  learned  how  to  benefit  them. 
She  had  taught  him  it  was  not  suffi- 
cient to  give  them  money:  it  was 
necessary  to  mingle  with  them,  talk 
with  them,  give  them  good  advice — 
in  a  word,  to  treat  them  as  brethren 
and  friends.  Having  organized  his 
evening-school,  he  resolved  to  visit 
the  most  destitute  and  ignorant 
families  in  the  village,  which  was 
about  a  kilometre  and  a  half  from 
the  manufactory.  He  went  there 


Madame  Agnes. 


every  evening  towards  six,  and  spent 
an  hour  in  going  from  one  house  to 
another.  Chance,  as  an  unbeliever 
would  say,  or  Providence,  to  speak 
more  correctly,  led  him  to  the  house 
of  a  poor  woman  quite  worthy  of  his 
interest.  She  was  fifty  years  of  age, 
and  slowly  wasting  away  from  disease 
of  the  lungs,  complicated  with  an 
affection  of  the  heart.  This  woman 
was  one  of  those  lovely  souls  devel- 
oped by  the  Catholic  religion  oftener 
than  is  supposed.  People  little  sus- 
pected how  much  she  suffered,  or 
with  how  much  patience  she  bore 
her  sufferings,  but  God  knew.  She 
was  a  real  martyr.  Married  to  a 
drunken,  brutal  man  of  her  own  age, 
she  had  endured  all  the  abuse  and  ill- 
treatment  with  which  he  loaded  her 
without  a  murmur.  She  had  brought 
up  her  son  piously,  and  labored  as 
long  as  she  was  able  to  supply  her 
own  wants  and  those  of  her  child. 
Broken  down  by  illness  and  the  con- 
tinual ill-treatment  of  her  husband, 
she  would  have  died  of  want,  had 
not  Mile.  Smithson  come  to  her 
aid,. 

When  Lpuis  went  to  see  this  poor 
woman,  whom  we  will  call  Fran9oise, 
she  spol|e  of  Eugenie  so  enthusiasti- 
cally, and  with  so  much  emotion,  that 
he  was  greatly  impressed.  It  was 
sweet  to  hear  the  praises  of  one  whom 
he  dreamed,  if  not  of  marrying,  at 
least  of  associating  in  his  good 
works. 

The  next  day,  he  repeated  his  call 
on  the  sick  woman,  and  for  several 
days  in  succession.  I  think  he  had 
a  secret  hope  of  meeting  Eugenie, 
without  daring  to  acknowledge  it  to 
himself.  As  yet,  he  had  merely  seen 
her.  He  found  her,  as  you  know, 
handsome,  stylish,  and  intelligent,  but 
cool  towards  him.  He  longed  to 
observe  her  in  this  miserable  dwelling. 
Here,  apart  from  other  influences,  she 
might  show  herself,  as  he  hoped  she 


really  was — exempt  from  the  imper  • 
fections  he  had  remarked  in  her  at 
home  with  regret.  Without  acknow- 
ledging it,  he  loved  her,  and  it  is  hard 
to  be  forced  to  pass  an  unfavorable 
judgment  on  those  we  love.  But 
days  passed  without  their  meeting. 
The  sick  woman  was  visibly  failing. 
One  evening,  Louis  found  her  weaker 
than  ever. 

"  My  dear  monsieur,"  said  she, 
"  I  am  very  happy.  I  am  about  to 
enter  the  presence  of  the  good  God  ! 
But  I  have  one  cause  for  anxiety  at 
the  hour  of  death.  I  depend  on  you 
to  remove  it.  When  the  wealthy  die, 
they  leave  their  friends  valuable  lega- 
cies, but  we  poor  people  have  only 
burdens  to  bequeath.  Mile.  Eugenie 
has  promised  to  watch  over  my  little 
boy.  She  is  very  kind !  .  .  .  And 
I  have  another  favor  to  ask  of  you, 
monsieur.  Not  far  from  the  village 
is  a  family  by  the  name  of  Vinceneau. 
The  father  is  employed  in  the  tile 
works  you  have  to  pass  in  coming  to 
see  me.  Hereafter,  when  you  come 
by,  continue  to  think  of  me,  and  pray 
for  me !  .  .  .  But  that  is  noj,  the 
point.  The  man  I  am  speaking  of  is 
intemperate  like  my  husband.  The 
mother  would  be  an  excellent  woman, 
were  it  not  for  two  faults.  She  is 
indolent  and  envious — always  ready 
to  think  evil  of  the  rich.  She  works 
at  your  mill.  It  is  not  these  two 
people  I  am  going  to  recommend  to 
you,  but  their  daughter.  The  poor 
child  is  as  handsome  as  a  picture,  and 
as  pious  as  an  angel.  She  often 
comes  to  see  me.  I  tremble  lest  she 
be  lost  through  the  bad  example  of 
her  parents,  or  through  dangerous 
society.  I  have  a  feeling  that,  in 
some  way,  you  will  find  means  of 
being  useful  to  her,  if  necessary.  I 
should  have  recommended  her  to 
Mile.  Eug6nie,  but  her  father  and 
mother,  as  I  have  said,  are  good  for 
nothing,  and  I  should  not  like  to  send 


Madame  Agnes. 


53 


mademoiselle  where  I  know  she  is 
detested  on  account  of  her  wealth." 
Louis   gladly  acceded  to  her  re- 
quest.     He  left  a  few  moments  after 


to  attend  his  evening-school.  Half- 
way home,  he  perceived  Eugenie 
coming  from  the  mill,  and  could  not 
help  meeting  her. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 


PERHAPS   PROPHETIC. 


IT  was  the  first  time  for  many  weeks 
that  Louis  had  met  Eugenie  alone. 
He  felt  greatly  excited,  and  natu- 
rally said  to  himself:  "  Ought  I  to 
manifest  any  appearance  of  avoiding 
her  ?  .  .  .  Or,  on  the  contrary,  shall 
I  keep  on?  Any  avoidance  might 
make  her  think  unfavorably  of  me. 
.  .  .  But  would  it  be  prudent  to 
speak  to  her  ?  .  .  ."  While  thus  de- 
bating with  himself,  he  looked  at 
Eugenie  as  she  advanced  towards 
him,  handsome  and  dignified  as  ever, 
and  as  calm  as  he  was  agitated. 
He  still  kept  on,  yielding  to  an  irre- 
sistible attraction  without  bringing 
himself  to  an  account  for  it.  As  he 
advanced,  he  recalled  how  Frangoise 
had  praised  her.  "That  dear  wo- 
man," he  said,  "  could  have  no  inte- 
rest in  deceiving  me.  A  soul  so 
upright  and  pure  could  only  tell  the 
truth.  And  who  has  had  a  better 
opportunity  of  knowing  Mile.  Euge- 
nie? .  .  .  Well,  I  must  study  this 
unique  girl  a  little  more !  .  .  .  I 
will  speak  to  her  !  .  .  .  I  have  judg- 
ed her  too  severely.  I  must  learn 
her  real  nature.  I  must  show  her 
what  I  am.  She  has,  I  am  sure, 
conceived  some  suspicion  about  me 
which  she  may  already  regret.  At 
all  events,  my  line  of  conduct  here 
is  plainly  marked  out.  I  am  resolv- 
ed to  regain  her  esteem,  and  obtain 
her  assistance  in  the  good  I  am 
doing,  in  order  that  it  may  be  done 
more  effectually  and  speedily.  Now 
is  the  time  to  make  the  attempt !  .  .  ." 

As  he  said  this  to  himself,  he 
met  Eugenie.  She  did  not  appear  at 
all  embarrassed  as  he  advanced  to 


speak  to  her,  but  said,  in  a  frank,  na- 
tural tone :  "  You  have  been  to  see 
my  patient;  she  spoke  of  you  yes- 
terday." 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle ;  I  have  just 
come  from  there.  I  do  not  think 
she  will  need  our  assistance  long. 
Poor  woman,  or  rather,  happy  wo- 
man, she  is  at  last  going  to  receive 
the  reward  she  so  well  deserves !  .  .  . 
But  how  many  others  there  are  still 
to  be  aided  when  she  is  gone !  .  .  . 
There  is  so  much  wretchedness 
whichever  way  we  turn !  If  there 
were  only  more  like  you,  mademoi- 
selle, to  look  after  the  poor !" 

"  And  you  also,  monsieur.  My 
father  has  told  me  something  of  your 
plans.  I  will  not  speak  of  my  ap- 
proval :  my  approbation  is  of  little 
value;  but  I  assure  you  they  please 
me.  Above  all,  I  hope  you  will  not 
allow  yourself  to  be  discouraged  by 
difficulties  you  are  likely,  to  meet 
with." 

"  I  hope,  with  the  help  of  God,  to 
overcome  them,  mademoiselle.  But 
the  efforts  of  an  isolated  individual 
like  myself  are  of  little  avail,  espe- 
cially when  one  has  had  no  more 
experience  and  is  no  richer  than  I." 

These  words  were  uttered  in  a 
tone  of  frankness  and  simplicity  that 
produced  a  lively  impression  on  Eu- 
genie. "  If  he  is  sincere  in  what  he 
says,"  said  she  to  herself,  "my  sus- 
picions about  him  are  unjust ;  but 
this  frankness  and  simplicity  of  man- 
ner are  perhaps  subtle  means  of 
blinding  my  eyes."  She  therefore 
remained  on  her  guard.  "  Ah ! 
monsieur,  it  is  not  money  alone  we 


54 


Madame  Agnes. 


should  give  the  poor !  What  they 
need,  above  all,  is  advice,  which  you 
are  much  better  fitted  to  give  than  I 
who  have  had  no  experience  of  life." 

There  was  a  tinge  of  irony  in  these 
last  words  that  did  not  escape  Louis, 
but  he  pretended  not  to  observe  it. 

"  I  do  not  think,"  said  he,  "  that 
I  have  had  as  much  experience  as 
you  suppose,  mademoiselle.  How- 
ever, a  Christian  seeks  aid  from  a 
different  source  than  the  insufficient 
arsenal  of  human  experience.  What 
we  should,  above  all,  remind  the  poor 
of,  what  we  should  induce  them  to 
love,  are  the  precepts  of  religion 
which  they  may  have  forgotten  and 
no  longer  practise  for  want  of  know- 
ing their  value." 

"  You  are  very  pious,  it  seems, 
monsieur,"  she  said,  in  a  slight  tone 
of  raillery. 

"  I  must  put  an  end  to  this,"  said 
Louis  to  himself.  "  She  seems  to  re- 
gard me  as  a  hypocrite.  I  will 
prove  to  her  I  am  not.  If  she  re- 
fuses to  believe  me,  her  persistency  in 
such  odious  and  unjust  suspicions  will 
redound  to  her  own  injury." 

"'Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  "I  am 
not  very  pious,  but  I  desire  to  be  so, 
or  rather  to  become  so  again,  for  I 
was  as  long  ,as  my  mother  lived. 
She  was  taken  away  too  soon  for  my 
good,  for  I  had  need  of  her  counsels 
and  guidance.  I  have  realized  it 
since  !  You  have  doubtless  had  an 
account  of  my  life.  It  may  be  sum- 
med up  in  three  words :  folly,  de- 
spair, and  return  to  God.  I  dare 
not  pledge  my  word  that  this  return 
.is  irrevocable :  I  have  given  too 
many  proofs  of  weakness  to  rely  on 
myself.  God,  who  has  brought  me 
back  to  himself,  can  alone  give  me 
the  necessary  strength  to  remain 
faithful  to  him.  But  if  I  cannot 
promise  ever  to  falter  again,  I  can  at 
least  venture  to  declare  that  my  con- 
version is  sincere — so  sincere  that, 


having  lost  all  I  had,  I  regard  this 
loss  as  extremely  fortunate,  for  it 
was,  in  God's  providence,  the  means 
of  leading  me  back  to  the  faith. 
Such  a  benefit  can  never  be  too 
dearly  purchased !" 

Louis  kept  his  tfyes  fastened  on 
Eugenie  as  he  spoke.  She  looked 
up  more  than  once ;  the  expression 
of  his  face  and  the  tone  of  his  voice 
were  so  evidently  those  of  an  honest 
man,  that  she  felt  all  her  doubts  give 
way. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  she,  "  I  do  not 
know  as  I  should  reproach  myself 
for  what  I  said  with  regard  to  your 
piety,  though  I  perceive  it  has 
wounded  you,  for  it  has  led  to  an 
explanation  on  your  part  which  .  .  ." 

"  Which  has  made  me  happy,"  was 
what  Eugenie  was  about  to  say,  but 
she  stopped  quite  confused  as  she 
bethought  herself  of  the  interpreta- 
tion he  might  give  to  her  words. 

Louis  comprehended  her  embar- 
rassment; he  saw  her  fears,  and 
came  to  her  aid.  "  Which  you 
thought  necessary,  mademoiselle," 
suggested  he.  "  I  can  understand 
that.  It  is  rather  a  rare  phenome- 
non to  see  a  young  man  pass  from 
dissipation  to  piety." 

Eugenie  immediately  recovered 
her  usual  serenity.  "  Well,  monsieur," 
said  she,  "  now  I  know  your  inten- 
tions and  projects ;  I  assure  you  my 
mother  and  myself  will  second  them 
as  much  as  is  in  our  power.  What 
is  there  we  can  do  ? 

"  Tell  me  what  charitable  offices 
you  like  the  least,  mademoiselle,  or 
what  you  find  too  difficult  to  per- 
form." 

"  That  is  admirable !  We  have 
often  longed  for  a  representative,  a 
substitute,  who  could  effect  what  we 
were  unable  to  do.  But  how  can 
we  otherwise  aid  you  ?" 

"  You  are  kind  enough,  then,  to 
allow  me  to  be  the  medium  of  your 


Madame  Agnes. 


55 


alms.  It  is  a  pleasant  office  to  re- 
ceive contributions  for  the  benefit  of 
others,  especially  from  people  as  be- 
nevolent as  you,  mademoiselle.  I 
accept  the  post  with  lively  gratitude, 
and  will  at  once  ask  you  for  some 
good  books  for  the  library  I  have 
established  for  the  workmen." 

"  I  will  bring  you  twenty  volumes 
to-morrow  that  are  of  no  use  to  me, 
and  are  exactly  what  you  want." 

Louis  and  Eugenie  then  separated. 
The  interview  was  short,  but  it  led 
to  the  very  points  which  enabled 
them  to  study  and  appreciate  each 
other  better  than  they  could  have 
done  in  two  hours  in  a  salon. 

That  evening,  Louis  appeared  to 
his  workmen  more  cheerful  and  so- 
cial than  usual.  He  was  at  last  sure 
of  gaining  Eugenie's  esteem.  With- 
out acknowledging  it  to  himself,  he 
already  loved  her  to  such  a  degree 
that  he  was  extremely  desirous  of  re- 
vealing himself  to  her  under  an  aspect 
more  and  more  favorable.  This  is 
loving  worthily  and  heartily. 

As  to  Eugenie,  when  she  entered 
the  presence  of  the  poor  woman  she 
went  to  visit,  she  could  not  resist  the 
desire  of  speaking  again  of  Louis.  An 
instinctive,  perhaps  superstitious,  feel- 
ing made  her  believe,  as  well  as  he, 
that  this  woman,  who  was  dying  in 
so  pious  a  frame  of  mind  after  so 
heroic  a  life,  could  not  be  mistaken 
in  her  opinion.  "  So  pure  a  soul 
ought  to  be  able  to  read  clearly  the 
hearts  of  those  around  her,"  she  said 
to  herself. 

"  Has  M.  Beauvais  been  here 
to-day,  Mere  Franchise  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle.  I  am  glad 
you  spoke  of  him.  I  do  not  expect 
to  see  him  again  in  this  world,  and 
was  so  taken  up  with  a  favor  I  had 
to  ask  him  that  I  forgot  to  express 
my  gratitude  for  all  his  kindness  to 
me.  Every  day  he  has  brought  me 
something  .new;  but  that  is  the  least 


of  his  benefits.  I  particularly  wished 
to  express  my  thanks  for  all  the  good 
he  has  done  me  by  his  conversation. 
Ah !  mademoiselle,  how  I  wish  you 
could  hear  him  speak  of  God,  the 
misery  of  this  world,  and  the  joys  cf 
heaven  !  If  I  die  happy,  it  is  owing 
to  him.  Before  he  came  to  see  me, 
I  was  afraid  of  death.  However 
poor  we  may  be,  we  cling  to  life  so 
strongly !  .  .  .  Thanks  to  him,  I  now 
feel  I  cannot  die  too  soon.  ...  I 
have  told  M.  le  Cure  all  this,  and  he 
made  me  promise  to  pray  for  one 
who  has  so  successfully  come  to  his 
aid.  When  I  reach  heaven,  I  shall 
pray  for  him  and  for  you,  mademoi- 
selle. You  have  both  been  so  kind 
to  me.  Promise  to  tell  him  all  this." 

This  testimony,  so  spontaneous 
and  heart-felt,  from  a  dying  person, 
with  regard  to  Louis'  goodness  and 
piety,  and  this  union  of  their  names 
in  the  expression  of  her  gratitude, 
produced  a  profound  and  lasting 
impression  on  the  tender,  romantic 
soul  of  Eugenie.  All  the  way  home 
she  dwelt  on  what  had  occurred.  She 
began  to  reproach  herself  for  her 
suspicions — suspicions  now  vanished. 
It  was  not  that  she  loved  Louis,  or 
even  had  an  idea  she  might  love 
him,  but  her  noble  mind  had  a  horror 
of  the  injustice  she  had  been  guilty 
of  towards  an  innocent  and  unfortu- 
nate man.  "  I  will  repair  it,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "  by  faithfully  keeping 
the  promise  I  made  him." 

That  very  evening,  she  spoke  of 
Louis  to  her  father  and  mother,  re- 
peating the  conversation  she  had  had 
with  him,  and  expressing  a  wish  to 
co-operate  in  the  good  work  he  was 
undertaking.  "  It  is  a  work  in  which 
we  cannot  refuse  our  sympathy,"  she 
said,  "  for  its  object  is  to  ameliorate 
the  condition  of  our  workmen — a 
question  that  has  preoccupied  us  all 
for  a  long  time." 

Eugenie's   object  in   this   was   to 


Madame  Agnes. 


induce  her  parents  to  express  their 
opinion  of  Louis.  She  particularly 
wished  to  ascertain  Mr.  Smithson's 
sentiments.  He  was  almost  an  in- 
fallible judge,  in  his  daughter's  estima- 
tion, and  therefore  it  was  with  sincere 
deference  she  awaited  his  reply.  It 
was  the  first  time  she  had  forced  him 
to  give  his  opinion  of  Louis,  or  that 
there  had  ever  been  any  serious 
question  concerning  him  in  the  family 
circle. 

"My  child,"  said  Mr.  Smithson, 
"  M.  Louis  means  well,  I  think.  He 
seems  to  be  a  considerate  person,  or 
at  least  tries  to  be.  I  approve  of 
your  wish  to  aid  him  in  collecting  a 
library;  but,  if  he  proposes  your  join- 


ing him  in  any  other  benevolent 
enterprise,  you  must  consult  me  be- 
fore coming  to  any  decision.  This 
young  man,  I  say,  has  good  qualities, 
but  he  is  a  little  enthusiastic.  His 
ardor  just  now  needs  moderating; 
after  a  while,  it  may  be  necessary  to 
revive  it.  Let  him  go  on.  We  will 
aid  him  when  we  can  be  of  ser- 
vice, but  must  be  a  little  on  our 
guard." 

The  oracle  had  spoken.  Eugenie 
reflected  on  what  had  been  said.  It 
was  evident  that  Louis  inspired  her 
father  with  some  distrust.  Mr. 
Smithson,  according  to  his  habit,  left 
his  wife  and  daughter  at  an  early 
hour  to  work  in  his  office. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

A  QUESTION. 


EUGENIE,  being  left  alone  with  her 
mother,  resolved  to  obtain,  if  possi- 
ble, some  light  on  the  question  her 
father's  words  had  excited  in  her 
mind.  She  felt  anxious  to  know 
why  he  distrusted  Louis.  He  was 
now  a  subject  of  interest  to  her. 
This  was  not  all:  she  had  begun  by 
judging  him  unfavorably ;  then  she 
reversed  her  opinion.  Now  she  had 
come  to  the  point  of  wishing  to  re- 
pair her  secret  wrongs  against  him 
without  his  being  aware  of  it.  ... 
But  should  she  carry  out  her  wish, 
or,  on  the  contrary,  return  to  her 
past  antipathy  ?  .  .  .  On  the  one 
hand  was  the  impression  left  by  her 
interview  with  Louis ;  on  the  other, 
the  depressing  state  of  doubt  produc- 
ed by  her  father's  reticence.  She 
was  one  of  those  persons  who  prefer 
certainty  to  doubt,  whatever  it  may 
be.  "  My  mother  must  be  aware  of 
my  father's  real  sentiments,"  she  said 
to  herself;  "I  will  ask  her."  No- 
thing was  easier.  Mme.  Smithson  and 
her  daughter  lived  on  a  footing  of 
affectionate  equality  that  I  do  not 


exactly   approve  of,  but   which   ex- 
cludes all  restraint. 

"  Mother,"  said  Eugenie,  "  give 
me  a  sincere  reply  to  what  I  am  go- 
ing to  ask.  What  do  you  think  of 
M.  Louis  ?" 

"  You  are  greatly  interested  in 
this  M.  Louis,  then  ?  You  talk  of 
nothing  else  this  evening.  What  is 
the  reason  ?  Hitherto  you  have 
paid  no  attention  to  him."  ' 

"  Yes ;  I  am  interested  in  him.  I 
have  been  studying  him.  You  know 
I  have  a  mania  for  deciphering  every- 
body. Well,  Jie  is  still  an  enigma. 
Yet  I  am  sure  of  one  thing  :  he  is  a 
man  to  be  thoroughly  esteemed  or 
despised,  not  half-way.  In  a  word, 
he  is  that  rare  thing — a  character. 
Only,  is  he  a  noble  or  a  contempt- 
ible character?  .  f  .  The  question  is 
a  serious  one.  I  wish  to  solve  it, 
but  cannot  with  the  light  I  now 
have." 

"  Well  done !  here  is  some  more 
of    your    customary    exaggeration 
Of  what  consequence  is  it,  my  dear, 
what  he  is  ?     He  has  conje  here  for 


Madame  Agnes. 


57 


well-known  reasons.  Your  father 
was  tired  of  attending  to  all  the  de- 
tails of  the  manufactory,  and  em- 
ploys him  to  take  charge  of  essential 
though  secondary  duties.  He  pays 
him  a  very  high  salary — too  high,  in 
my  estimation — but  he  is  pleased, 
delighted  with  his  aptitude  and  ac- 
tivity ;  that  is  all  I  care  for." 

"  Excuse  me,  that  is  not  enough 
for  me.  I  repeat :  M.  Louis  is  differ- 
ent from  most  men,  mother.  He  is 
a  man,  and  the  rest  are  only  puppets." 

"  Really  !  I  should  not  have  sus- 
pected it.  He  seems  to  me  quite 
commonplace." 

"  But  not  to  me." 

"  What  can  you  see  in  him  so  re- 
markable ?" 

"  He  has,  or  at  least  appears  to 
have,  an  elevation  of  mind  and  con- 
stancy of  purpose  that  are  striking." 

"Why,  my  dear,  you  make  me 
laugh.  Really,  if  all  the  gentlemen 
you  see  would  only  adapt  themselves 
a  little  to  your  humor,  there  is  not 
one  you  could  not  turn  into  a  hero 
of  romance." 

"  Not  at  all.  The  proof  is  that 
I  have  hitherto  only  seen  men  un- 
worthy of  any  serious  consideration. 
When  did  I  ever  acknowledge  I  had 
found  a  man  of  character  such  as  I 
would  like  to  see  ?  .  .  ." 

"And  you  think  M.  Louis  this 
white  blackbird  ?" 

"  I  really  do." 

"  Well,  I  confess  you  astonish  me. 
I  never  should  have  dreamed  of 
your  noticing  him.  Perhaps  you 
have  taken  a  fancy  to  him." 

"  Mother,  we  are  accustomed  to 
think  aloud  before  each  other.  I  do 
not  fancy  him — understand  that — in 
the  least.  I  do  not  even  believe  I 
ever  could  fancy  him.  This  does 
not  prevent  me  from  thinking  him,  as 
I  said,  different  from  other  men. 
Whether  in  good  or  ill,  he  differs 
from  young  men  of  his  age.  But  is 


he  better  or  worse  ? — that  is  the 
question — a  serious  one  I  would  like 
to  have  answered.  Till  to-day,  I 
have  thought  him  worse." 

"  It  is  not  possible !  The  poor  fel- 
low has  committed  some  errors,  as  I 
have  told  you.  I  certainly  do  not 
wish  to  palliate  them,  but  we  must 
not  be  more  severe  than  God  him- 
self: he  always  pardons." 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  his  sins." 

"  What  is  the  question,  then  ? 
You  keep  me  going  from  one  sur- 
prise to  another  this  evening." 

"  It  is  a  question  of  knowing  if  he 
is  the  man  he  pretends  to  be — that 
is,  one  who  has  forsaken  his  errors, 
acknowledges  he  has  gone  astray, 
repents,  and  resolves  to  live  hence- 
forth in  a  totally  different  manner. 
If  he  is  such  a  man ;  if  he  can  resign 
himself  courageously  to  his  modest 
situation  here,  and,  moreover,  has 
the  noble  desire  of  comforting  the 
afflicted,  instructing  the  ignorant, 
and  reclaiming  those  who  have  gone 
astray,  I  tell  you  M.  Louis  is 
worthy  of  the  highest  esteem ;  we 
ought  to  encourage  and  aid  him 
with  all  our  might.  But  if  he  is  not 
the  man  I  think — if  these  fine  projects 
are  only  a  lure,  an  artful  means  .  .  ." 

"  A  means  of  doing  what  ?  .  .  . 
Goodness !  Eugenie,  you  get  bewil- 
dered with  your  fancies.  Do  you 
imagine  he  wishes  to  revolutionize 
the  establishment,  and  supplant  your 
father?  .  .  ." 

"  Let  us  not  exaggerate  things, 
I  beg,  mother.  What  I  wished  you 
to  understand  was  a  delicate  point. 
I  hoped  you  would  guess  it  from  a 
word.  Come,  have  you  no  suspicion 
of  what  so  greatly  troubles  me  ?" 

"  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea." 

"  Indeed !  .  .  .  I  am  astonished. 
Well,  may  he  not  manifest  all  this 
zeal,  and  affect  all  these  airs  of  dis- 
interested benevolence,  to  bring 
about  a  secret  project  ?" 


Madame  Agnes. 


"  What  one,  I  ask  you  again  ? 
When  you  go  to  dreaming  impossi- 
bilities, you  know  I  can  never  follow 
you.  Explain  yourself  clearly." 

"  Well,  since  I  am  forced  to  call 
things  by  their  right  names,  is  he  not 
aiming  at  my  hand  ?" 

"  What  a  droll  idea  !  .  .  .  Why, 
he  has  not  a  sou  left!  Everybody 
knows  that.  He  spent  his  property 
in  six  or  seven  years,  and  has  no- 
thing more  to  expect  for  a  long  time. 
So  you  believe  he  resolved  to  become 
religious,  thinking  that  would  be 
sufficient  capital,  in  Mr.  Smithson's 
eyes,  to  obtain  his  daughter  ?  I 
think  he  has  too  much  sense  to  ima- 
gine anything  so  absurd ;  especially 
to  give  it  a  serious  thought," 

"  But  if  he  hoped  to  please  me  by 
this  means  ?  ...  to  win  my  esteem, 
my  good  will,  my  affection  ?  .  .  ." 

"  All  romance  that,  my  dear." 

"  But  not  impossible." 

"  I  prefer  to  think,  for  my  own 
peace  of  mind  and  your  father's,  that 
things  will  turn  out  differently. 
We  have  never  intended  you  to  mar- 
ry a  man  without  property.  The 
idea  of  your  having  a  husband  who, 
instead  of  being  wealthy,  has  squan- 
dered all  he  had,  and  might  spend 
what  you  brought  him !  .  .  ." 

"  Ah  !  I  understand  you :  you  do 
not  think  him  sincere." 

"  I  do  not  say  that !  He  may  be 
changed  for  the  present,  but  who 
can  be  sure  his  conversion  will  be 
lasting  ?" 

"It  will  if  it  is  sincere;  I  am 
sure  of  that,  for  I  have  studied  him. 
He  possesses  one  quality  which  I 
either  admire  or  detest,  according  to 
the  use  made  of  it :  he  has  a  strong 
will.  He  has  been  here  a  month, 
and,  having  nothing  better  to  do,  I 
have  observed  him,  and  have  not 
discovered  a  single  inconsistency  in 
his  conduct.  He  has  always  shown, 
exteriorly  at  least,  the  same  love  of 


labor,  the  same  desire  of  doing  all 
the  good  he  can,  and  the  same  un- 
assuming deportment.  Either  he  is  a 
man  of  rare  excellence,  or  is  uncom- 
monly artful.  I  wish  I  knew  exact- 
ly what  my  father  thinks  of  him." 

"  And  why  this  persistency  in  dis- 
covering a  mystery  of  so  little  im- 
portance ?" 

"  Because  I  do  not  wish  to  despise 
M.  Louis  if  he  is  worthy  of  esteem, 
and  it  would  be  wrong  not  to  en- 
courage him  in  well-doing  if  he  has 
entered  on  that  path  with  a  sincere 
heart.  Besides,  I  regard  what  he  has 
undertaken  and  all  he  wishes  to  do 
as  admirable  as  it  is  useful.  I  had 
been  wishing  for  such  an  attempt  to 
be  made  here,  and  could  not  be  better 
pleased  than  to  see  my  idea  so  speed- 
ily realized.  M.  Louis  is,  in  my  eyes, 
either  a  saint  or  a  hypocrite.  I  have 
no  fancy  for  loving  either  the  one  or 
the  other;  but,  if  he  is  a  saint,  I  should 
feel  like  aiding  him  to  a  certain  de- 
gree. After  all,  mother,  is  there  any- 
thing in  the  world  more  desirable 
than  to  do  good  to  those  around  us, 
especially  when  we  are  so  situated 
as  to  make  it  a  duty  ?  Have  you 
not  often  said  so  yourself?" 

"  You  are  right,  my  dear  Eugenie. 
I  feel  what  you  say,  and  approve  of 
it.  As  I  advance  in  years,  I  feel  a 
constantly  increasing  desire  of  labor- 
ing for  Almighty  God,  for  whom  I 
have  hitherto  done  so  little.  You 
need  not  fear;  neither  your  father 
nor  I  have  any  doubts  as  to  M. 
Louis.  Nothing  we  have  observed 
or  have  been  told  leads  us  to  think 
him  a  hypocrite.  As  you  desire  it 
so  strongly,  I  Will  tell  you  your  fa- 
ther's secret  opinion,  but  do  not  be- 
tray me.  He  only  dislikes  one  thing 
in  M.  Louis :  he  is  too  devoted  a 
Catholic.  It  is  all  in  vain :  we  can- 
not induce  your  father  to  like  our  re- 
ligion. Catholics  are  too  ardent 
every  way,  too  superstitious,  he  says. 


Madame  Agnes. 


59 


He  distrusts  the  engineer  because 
he  thinks  him  overzealous,  that  is 
all.  .  .  ." 

When  Eugenie  went  to  her  cham- 
ber, she  selected  the  books  she  wish- 
ed to  contribute  to  Louis'  library, 
and  then  retired  to  rest,  thinking  of 
all  the  good  that  would  now  be  done 
by  him,  as  well  as  herself,  in  a  place 
where  want  and  every  evil  passion 
were  to  be  found.  Her  noble,  ardent 
soul  had  at  length  found  its  sphere. 
Hitherto  she  had  dreamed  of  many 
ways  of  giving  a  useful  direction  to 
her  activity,  each  one  more  impracti- 
cable than  the  rest.  The  right  way 
was  now  open.  Louis  had  pointed 
it  out.  Eugenie  longed  to  become 

the  benefactress  of  St.  M .  Her 

imagination  and  her  heart  were 
pleased.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she 
had  become  another  being.  She 
prayed  that  night  with  a  fervor  she 
had  not  felt  for  a  long  time.  Then 
she  fell  into  a  reverie.  In  spite  of 
herself,  Louis'  image  continually  re- 
curred to  her  mind.  Before  she  fell 
asleep,  she  murmured  a  prayer  for 
poor  Fransoise.  Her  name  recalled 
the  last  words  of  that  excellent  wo- 
man :  "  In  heaven,  I  shall  pray  for 
him  and  for  you !"  And  circumstan- 
ces were  tending  that  same  day  to 
link  them  together  as  the  dying  wo- 
man had  joined  their  names  in  pray- 
er. There  was  something  singular 
about  this  that  struck  Eugenie's  im- 
agination. "  Can  her  words  be  pro- 
phetic ?"  she  said  to  herself.  "  So 
many  strange  things  happen !  .  .  . 
But  this  would  be  too  much.  He 
pleases  me  in  no  way  except  .  .  ." 
And  she  reviewed  his  good  qualities, 
then  blushed  for  attaching  so  much 
importance  to  the  thought.  .  .  . 

The  next  morning,  she  went  with 
the  books  she  had  selected  the  night 
before.  Fanny  accompanied  her. 
Louis  received  her  with  the  exquisite 
politeness  he  never  laid  aside  but 


with  a  cold  reserve  he  had  resolved 
to  maintain  towards  her.  Their  in- 
terview only  lasted  a  few  minutes. 
Fanny,  who  had  been  easy  for  some 
time,  was  greatly  astonished  when 
asked  to  accompany  her  mistress  to 
the  engineer's  office.  Their  conver- 
sation showed  they  had  recently 
seen  each  other,  but  under  what  cir- 
cumstances she  could  not  make  out. 
All  this  redoubled  her  suspicions, 
On  her  way  home  with  Eugenie, 
she  remarked : 

"  That  M.  Louis  is  a  charming 
young  man ;  more  so  than  I  had 
supposed.  What  respect  he  showed 
mademoiselle !  I  am  sure  made- 
moiselle judges  him  with  less  severity 
than  she  did  several  weeks  ago." 

"  I  have  never  judged  him  with 
severity,"  replied  Eugenie,  with  that 
lofty  coolness  which  made  those  who 
did  not  know  her  accuse  her  of  pride. 
"  Why  should  I  judge  M.  Beauvais  ? 
that  is  my  father's  business." 

Fanny  returned  to  the  assault : 
"  That  is  a  queer  notion  of  his  to 
wish  to  instruct  all  those  ignorant 
people.  Much  good  will  it  do  them! 
The  more  they  know,  the  more  dan- 
gerous they  will  be !  .  .  ." 

"  Fanny,  you  should  address  such 
observations  to  M.  Louis  or  my 
father.  It  is  they  who  have  founded 
the  library  and  school,  and  they  in- 
tend doing  many  other  things  with- 
out consulting  you,  I  imagine." 

"  Common  people  sometimes  give 
good  advice." 

"  But  they  should  give  it  to  those 
who  heed  it.  All  this  does  not  con- 
cern me,  I  tell  you  again." 

"  O  the  deceitful  girl !"  said  Fanny 
to  herself  when  alone  in  her  cham- 
ber that  night.  "  I  always  said  she 
would  deceive  me.  Where  could 
she  have  seen  him  ?  ...  Is  she 
already  in  love  with  him  ?  .  .  .  She 
is  capable  of  it !  But  I  will  watch 
her  narrowly,  and,  if  it  is  not  too  late, 


6o 


Madame  Agnes. 


will  counteract  her  projects !  I  have 
a  good  deal  to  contend  with,  how- 
ever. This  M.  Louis  is  an  artful 
fellow.  And  on  the  other  hand,  it  is 
no  easy  matter  '»  lead  Mile.  Euge- 
nie. ...  I  only  hope  she  is  not  yet  in 
love  with  him !  ...  If  she  were  to 


marry  him  instead  of  her  cousin,  I 
should  go  distracted.  .  .  Poor  Al- 
bert !  if  he  knew  what  is  going  on 
here.  Fortunately,  I  am  on  the  spot 
to  watch  over  his  interests.  And 
there  is  more  reason  than  ever  to  be 
on  the  lookout." 


CHAPTER   XVI. 
LOVE  WITHOUT  HOPE. 


Louis  came  to  see  us  as  often  as 
his  occupations  allowed.  He  made 
us  a  long  call  the  very  day  after  Eu- 
genie gave  him  the  books  for  his 
library,  and  seemed  more  excited 
than  usual.  He  related  his  conver- 
sation with  Mr.  Smithson,  and  spoke 
of  his  pleasure  at  meeting  Eugenie 
and  regaining  her  good  opinion  by  a 
frank  explanation  of  his  plans  and 
the  motives  by  which  he  was  influ- 
enced. 

"Well,"  said  Victor,  "does  she 
continue  to  please  you  ?" 

"  More  than  I  wish." 

"  Why  this  regret  ?" 

"  It  is  only  reasonable.  My  hap- 
piness is  involved  in  being  pleased 
'with  her." 

"  Come,  I  see  we  shall  not  be  able 
to  agree  on  this  point." 

"  Yes,  my  dear  friend ;  the  more  I 
reflect,  the  plainer  it  is  that  I  ought 
not  to  become  attached  to  her;  at 
least,  to  make  her  aware  of  it,  should 
such  a  misfortune  happen.  But  I 
will  not  conceal  it  from  you :  I  fear 
I  already  love  her.  ..." 

"  You  are  decidedly  tenacious  in 
your  notions.  Why  do  you  torture 
yourself  with  scruples  that  are  evi- 
dently exaggerated?  .  .  ." 

"  All  your  friendly  reasonings  are 
of  no  avail.  However  disinterested 
my  love  might  be,  it  would  seem  to 
her  only  the  result  of  calculation ; 
this  is  enough  to  justify  me  in  my 
apprehensions." 

"  I  cannot  agree  with  you.     Deli- 


cacy of  sentiment  is  a  noble  thing, 
but  it  must  not  be  carried  to  excess. 
I  am  willing  you  should  conceal 
your  love  for  her  till  you  can  prove 
it  sincere ;  that  is,  not  the  result  of 
calculation — I  will  go  still  further: 
till  the  time  comes  when  they  volun- 
tarily render  homage  to  the  noble- 
ness of  your  intentions.  But  when 
that  day  comes,  and  you  see  that 
Mile.  Eugenie  esteems  and  loves 
you  .  .  ." 

"She  will  never  love' me." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?" 

"  Mile.  Smithson  has  rare  qualities 
which  make  her  the  realization  of  all 
my  dreams,  but  I  see  I  am  not  pleas- 
ing to  her.  Before  any  change  in 
her  sentiments  is  possible,  she  will 
have  another  suitor  with  more  to 
offer  her  than  I,  and  without  a  past 
like  mine  to  frustrate  his  hopes.  He 
will  please  her,  and  I  can  only  with- 
draw. Well,  I  confess  I  wish  to  re- 
serve one  consolation  for  that  day, 
feeble  as  it  may  be — the  satisfaction 
of  being  able  to  say  to  myself:  "  She 
did  not  know  I  loved  her." 

"  My  poor  friend,  you  take  too 
gloomy  a  view  of  the  future." 

"  Do  not  imagine  my  fears  will  re- 
sult in  a  dangerous  melancholy.  I 
realize  more  fully  than  you  may  sup- 
pose the  advantages  of  my  present 
position.  I  might  at  this  very  mo- 
ment be  in  another  world — a  world 
of  despair.  ...  To  us  Christians, 
such  a  thought  is  full  of  horror.  In- 
stead of  that,  I  see  the  possibility  of 


Madame  Agnes. 


61 


repairing  the  past,  and  of  doing  some 
good.  When  I  compare  my  present 
life  with  that  I  was  leading  a  year 
ago,  the  favorable  contrast  makes  me 
happy!  I  had  discarded  the  faith, 
lost  the  esteem  of  upright  men,  and 
given  myself  up  to  ignoble  pleas- 
ures ! — useless  to  the  world,  an  object 
of  disgust  to  myself.  I  had  not  the 
courage  to  look  at  myself  as  I  was. 
How  all  that  is  changed !  How  happy 
I  ought  to  be!  .  .  .  But, no;  the  heart 
of  man  is  at  once  weak  and  insati- 
able. At  a  time  when  I  ought  to  be 
happy,  I  am  so  weak  as  to  yield  to 
a  love  I  should  have  denied  myself. 
If  I  cannot  overcome  it,  it  will  be  a 
source  of  new  regret.  I  know  there 
is  one  means  of  safety,  or  perhaps 
there  is — that  of  flight.  .  .  .  But,  no; 
I  will  not,  I  cannot  thus  ensure  a 
selfish  security.  It  would  be  coward- 
ly to  recede  before  the  noble  work 
God  has  assigned  me.  There  is  no 
doubt  now  as  to  my  future  usefulness 
at  Mr.  Smithson's.  I  could  not  find 
elsewhere  the  same  facilities  for  doing 
the  good  I  long  to  effect.  I  will  re- 
main. ..." 

"  I  will  not  assert  it  would  be 
cowardly  to  leave,  but  a  man  as 
courageous  as  you  are  and  have 
need  to  be  ought  to  remain  at  his 
post  at  whatever  cost.  Like  you,  I 
believe  that  is  the  post  to  which  God 
himself  has  called  you." 

"  I  shall  remain.  .  .  .  You  can- 
not imagine  how  happy  I  am  there 
when  my  heart  is  not  agitated.  Pro- 
visions are  dear  this  year,  and  we 
have  quite  a  number  of  hands  forced 
by  want  to  leave  Paris.  These  two 
things  combined  have  produced  un- 
usual demoralization  among  the  men 
we  employ.  Some  give  themselves 
up  to  drunkenness  by  way  of  relief; 
others,  listening  to  the  evil  sugges- 
tions of  hunger,  conceive  an  inward 
hatred  against  those  who  are  rich. 
There  are  a  few  ringleaders,  and  a 


good  many  disaffected  men,  all  ready 
to  yield  to  the  most  criminal  propos- 
als. Mr.  Smithson  is  aware  of  this, 
and  therefore  fully  approves  of  my 
plan  for  the  amelioration  of  so  mixed 
a  set.  I  must  do  him  the  justice  to 
acknowledge  he  has  been  generous. 
His  wife  and  daughter  are  still  more 
so.  I  shall  therefore  remain  as  long 
as  I  can.  I  only  beseech  God  for 
one  favor — to  bless  my  efforts,  and 
give  me  the  courage  necessary  to 
make  the  great  sacrifice  if  it  be  re- 
quired. ..." 

"Ah!  then  you  really  love  Mile. 
Smithson.  I  thought  at  the  most 
you  were  only  afraid  of  loving  her." 

"  No ;  I  will  no  longer  keep  this 
secret  to  myself;  it  is  too  great  a 
burden  to  bear  alone.  Besides,  this 
concealment  would  not  be  worthy 
of  either  of  us.  I  was  still  in  doubt 
this  morning,  but  have  since  read  the 
state  of  my  heart  more  clearly.  And 
this  is  what  enabled  me  to  do  so : 

"  I  returned  home  from  church 
this  morning  with  Mile.  Eugenie  and 
her  mother.  The  church,  you  know, 
is  a  kilometre  and  a  half  from  the 
mill,  but  the  road  is  delightful.  On 
coming  out  of  church,  Mme.  Smith- 
son,  who  is  an  excellent  woman,  and 
quite  pleasant  and  easy  in  her  man- 
ners, invited  me,  as  it  were,  to  accom- 
pany them.  Mile.  Eugenie  at  first 
remained  apart  with  her  waiting- 
maid,  but  still  near  enough  to  hear 
what  we  said.  We  first  discussed  the 
things  suitable  to  give  the  poor,  and 
the  utility  of  familiar  conversation 
with  them  in  their  houses.  I  express- 
ed a  determination  to  perform  this 
act  of  charity  as  often  as  possible. 
I  begged  Mme.  Smithson  to  mention 
the  families  she  thought  it  advisable 
to  visit  in  this  way,  as  she  knows 
them  better  than  I.  She  promised 
to  give  me  a  list.  Mile.  Eugenie 
then  drew  near,  and  said  she  would 
add  a  few  names  to  it;  then,  taking  a 


62 


Madame  Agnes. 


part  in  the  conversation,  and  even 
directing  it  with  the  grace  she  shows 
in  everything,  she  spoke  in  turn  of 
charity,  religion,  and  literature  with 
an  elevation  of  thought  and  in  such 
beautiful  language  that  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  listen  to  her.  From  time 
to  time  we  stopped  to  look,  now  at 
one  object,  and  then  at  another — 
the  large  trees  by  the  wayside,  the 
bushes,  or  the  cottages.  Mile.  Smith- 
son  found  something  charming  to  say 
of  everything.  We  were  half  an  hour 
in  going  a  distance  we  might  have 
accomplished  in  twenty  minutes — a 
delightful  half-hour,  but  it  had  its 
bitterness,  as  all  my  joys  will  hence- 
forth have.  I  see  it  is  the  will  of 
God  that  I  should  expiate  my 
offences.  Like  you,  I  am  persuaded 
that  the  privilege  of  doing  good — the 
most  desirable  of  all  privileges — is 
only  to  be  purchased  at  the  price  of 
suffering." 

"Yes,"  said  Victor;  "but  at  the 
price  of  what  suffering  ?  Who  can 
assure  you  it  is  that  of  which  you 
are  thinking  ?  .  .  .  That  is  a  secret 
known  only  to  God." 

"That  is  true,  but  I  am  sure  I 
had  to-day  a  foretaste  of  the  suffering 
I  allude  to.  She  was  there  beside 
me — that  beautiful  young  girl  who 
would  be  a  model  of  feminine  excel- 
lence did  she  not  lack  one  quality — 
piety — a  piety  more  womanly,  more 
profound,  and  more  simple.  She 
said  many  striking  things — things 
that  go  straight  to  the  heart :  there 
was  perfect  sympathy  between  her 
soul  and  mine,  but  I  watched  over 
myself  that  I  might  not  betray  the 
admiration,  the  delight,  the  emotion, 
with  which  I  listened  to  her!  In 


the  expression  of  her  eyes,  tne  tone 
of  her  voice,  and  whole  manner,  I 
could  see,  alas !  how  indifferent  she 
was  towards  me;  that  she  regarded 
me  as  her  father's  agent — a  mere  em- 
ploye, worthy  only  of  passing  atten- 
tion." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  You  are 
so  accustomed  to  reading  hearts 
that  perhaps  you  take  imagination 
for  reality." 

"  I  do  not  think  so.  ...  She  has 
changed  towards  me,  I  acknowledge. 
She  regards  me  as  a  sincere,  upright 
person.  I  know  how  to  keep  in  my 
place,  but  there  she  allows  me  to 
remain,  and  will  continue  to  do  so." 

Louis  was  extremely  agitated 
when  he  left  us  that  evening.  My 
poor  Victor,  ill  as  he  was,  and  he 
was  now  worse  than  ever,  was 
thoughtful  and  sad  for  some  time 
after  Louis  had  gone. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  am  thinking  of  Louis,"  he  re- 
plied. "  I  fear  things  may  turn  out 
badly  for  our  poor  friend.  I  do  not 
know  whether  he  will  ever  marry 
Eug6nie  or  not;  but  I  have  a  pre- 
sentiment, I  know  not  why,  that  this 
love  is  to  cause  him  great  suffering. 
And  yet  this  attachment  could  not 
fail  to  spring  up.  If  it  is  God's  will 
that  Louis  should  pass  through  a  se- 
vere trial,  promise  me  to  stand  by 
him." 

"But  you  will  also  stand  by 
him  ?" 

"  I  shall  no  longer  be  here." 

Sad  words !  they  were  soon  to  be 
verified.  Meanwhile,  the  hour  of 
trial  was  approaching  our  poor 
friend— the  trial  he  himself  had  fore- 
seen. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A  SOUBRETTE'S  PLOT. 


MEANWHILE,  Fanny  was  preparing 
sad  hours  for  Louis.' 


Louis  thought  Eugenie  maintain- 
ed great  reserve  during  the  conversa- 


Madame  Agnes. 


tion  that  took  place  on  their  way 
home  from  church — so  insatiable 
is  one  who  loves  1  But  Fanny  re- 
ceived quite  a  different  impression. 
Never  had  she  seen  her  mistress  so 
inspired,  or  converse  with  so  much 
fluency  and  animation.  Mme.  Smith- 
son's  kindness  towards  Loais,  the 
appreciatory  remarks  she  and  her 
daughter  made  after  their  return 
home,  and  the  dry,  haughty  manner 
with  which  Enge"nie  put  Fanny  in  her 
place  when  she  attempted  to  speak  of 
the  engineer,  all  excited  the  cunning 
servant's  suspicions  in  the  highest 
degree. 

"  There  is  nothing  lost  yet,"  she 
said  to  herself;  "perhaps  there  has 
been  no  danger  of  it.  Mademoiselle 
is  not  in  love  with  him  now,  but  she 
may  be  soon,  if  care  is  not  taken. 
To  delay  any  further  would  risk 
everything.  I  will  hesitate  no  long- 
er. How  M.  Albert  would  reproach 
me  were  I  to  warn  him  too  late ! 
How  much  I  should  reproach  my- 
self! Instead  of  having  that  excel- 
lent boy,  so  dear  to  me,  for  a  master 
who  would  allow  me  to  govern  his 
house  in  my  own  way,  I  should  be 
the  humble  servant  of  this  gentle- 
man, who  is  by  no  means  pleasing  to 
me,  and  who  appears  determined  to 
make  everybody  yield  to  him.  He 
is  humble  for  the  moment,  because 
he  has  nothing;  but  I  can  read  in 
his  eyes :  the  day  he  is  master  here 
it  will  be  in  earnest.  I  shall  then 
have  to  start.  That  would  be  dis- 
tressing. There  is  only  one  way  of 
avoiding  such  a  misfortune  :  I  must 
hasten  to  write  Albert's  mother !" 

So  saying,  Fanny  seated  herself  at 
her  table.  An  hour  after,  her  chef- 
d'otuvre  was  completed.  She  remind- 
ed Mme.  Fremin,  her  old  mistress,  of 


the  affection  she  had  always  cherished 
for  her  and  her  son — which  was  true ; 
she  spoke  of  having  wished  for 
several  years  to  see  Albert  marry 
Eugenie,  and  pointed  out  the  perfect 
harmony  of  taste  there  was  between 
the  two  cousins.  This  point,  how- 
ever, remained  problematical.  Fan- 
ny added  that  she  should  not  be 
happy  till  the  day  she  saw  her  two 
dear  children  united  and  estab- 
lished, and  she  herself  living  with 
them,  entirely  devoted  to  their  in- 
terests. 

Like  all  shrewd  people,  the  sou- 
brette  reserved  the  most  important 
communication  for  the  end  of  her 
letter.  She  then  remarked  that  Mile. 
Eugenie  seemed  to  be  tired  of  the 
country,  and  it  was  time  for  Albert 
to  offer  himself;  for,  if  another  suitor 
appeared  first,  which  she  insinuated 
was  by  no  means  improbable,  Albert 
might  regret  his  delay.  She  had 
serious  apprehensions.  .  .  .  Albert 
must  really  come.  She  would  tell  him 
all;  he  would  never  regret  having 
undertaken  the  journey.  But  he 
must  be  careful,  if  he  came,  not  to 
mention  that  she,  Fanny,  had  urged 
him  to  do  so.  If  she  wrote  thus,  it 
was  only  because  she  was  in  a  man- 
ner constrained  by  her  affection  for 
Albert  and  Eugenie.  He  must  there- 
fore be  careful  not  to  risk  everything 
by  his  indiscretion.  .  .  . 

This  letter,  carefully  corrected 
and  copied,  was  taken  to  the  post- 
office  in  town  the  next  day.  No  one 
suspected  Fanny  had  written  to 
Tante  Fre"min.  It  is  useless  to  speak 
of  the  impatience  with  which  she 
waited  to  see  what  her/w/^/  would 
do.  She  trembled  at  the  idea  that 
he  might  not  be  roused  till  it  was 
entirely  too  late  to  come. 


Madame  Agnes. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


A   GLEAM   BEFORE   THE   STORM. 


A  WEEK  after,  Louis  was  again  in- 
rited  to  dine  at  Mr.  Smithson's, 
whose  birthday  they  were  to  cele- 
brate. The  only  people  invited  out 
of  the  family  were  the  doctor  and  the 
Cwr/ofSt.  M .  The  curfs  invita- 
tion was  an  affair  of  importance,  as 
you  will  see. 

Mr.  Smithson,  as  I  have  remarked, 
was  an  Englishman  by  birth.  He 
had  been  induced  by  two  motives  to 
settle  permanently  in  France  when 
about  thirty  years  of  age:  the  cli- 
mate suited  his  constitution  better 
than  that  of  his  own  country,  and  he 
could  live  more  at  his  ease  on  the 
same  income  than  he  could  in  Eng- 
land. 

Taking  a  house  in  Paris  occupied 
by  several  tenants,  his  attention  was 
drawn  towards  a  young  girl  employ- 
ed in  a  mercer's  shop  on  the  ground 
floor  of  the  same  building.  This 
girl  was  no  other  than  the  present 
Mme.  Smithson.  She  lived  with  her 
mother,  who  was  in  comfortable  cir- 
cumstances, but  made  no  preten- 
sions. They  were  very  estimable 
people,  and  gave  the  rich  Englishman 
to  understand  that  he  could  only  be 
admitted  as  a  visitor  on  condition 
of  acknowledged  serious  intentions. 
Mr.  Smithson  at  first  hesitated.  The 
girl  was  not  rich,  she  belonged  to  a 
class  he  considered  inferior  to  his 
own,  and,  what  was  more,  they  were 
of  different  religions.  But  it  was  too 
late  to  call  reason  to  his  aid.  For 
six  months  he  had  felt  a  constantly 
increasing  love  for  her.  He  there- 
fore offered  her  his  hand,  merely 
requiring  one  concession  on  her  part 
before  he  could  marry  her.:  she  must 
embrace  the  religion  he.  professed 
himself.  Neither  of  the  women  who 
listened  to  this  proposition  was  pious. 


but  they  did  not  lack  faith,  and  they 
fulfilled  the  absolute  commands  of 
the  church.  They  therefore  replied, 
without  a  moment's  hesitation,  that 
Mile.  Suzanne  could  not  give  up  her 
religion  for  the  sake  of  marrying  him. 
At  this,  Mr.  Smithson  hesitated  anew, 
but,  as  before,  love  carried  the  day. 
He  renewed  his  offer,  promising  not 
to  interfere  with  Suzanne's  religious 
belief  if  she  would  become  his  wife. 
He  only  made  one  condition  to  their 
marriage :  they  should  respectively 
practise  their  religion  without  making 
any  attempt  to  convert  each  other. 
As  to  the  children,  the  boys  must  be 
brought  up  in  their  father's  belief, 
the  daughters  in  that  of  their  mother. 
Deplorable  arrangement !  showing 
the  shameful  indifference  of  both 
parties,  or  their  foolish  and  culpable 
inconsistency.  You  know  the  church 
expressly  forbids  such  concessions. 
It  only  tolerates  mixed  marriages  on 
a  precisely  contrary  condition  :  the 
parties  to  be  married  must  pledge 
themselves  that  their  offspring  shall 
be  brought  up  in  the  Catholic  reli- 
gion. I  do  not  know  how  Mile.  Su- 
zanne, in  becoming  Mme.  Smithson, 
found  means  to  evade  this  new  diffi- 
culty. It  is  possible  that,  through 
ignorance  or  culpable  weakness,  she 
yielded  to  the  terms  without  acknow- 
ledging it  to  any  one.  She  doubtless 
hoped,  when  the  time  came  for  test- 
ing the  arrangement,  to  find  some 
means  of  extricating  herself  from  it. 
At  all  events,  they  were  married. 
Mr.  Smithson  remained  an  Anglican, 
and,  astonishing  to  say,  a  thorough 
one.  His  attachment  to  the  Church 
of  England  was  easily  explained  by 
those  who  knew  him.  He  still  cher- 
ished an  ardent  love  for  his  country, 
and  almost  reproached  himself  for 


Madame  Agnes. 


leaving  it.  His  fidelity  to  the  Eng- 
lish Church  was  a  last  testimony  of 
attachment  to  the  country  he  had 
abandoned. 

When  Eugenie  was  born,  her  fa- 
ther manifested  a  temporary  sullen- 
ness  and  ill  humor  at  her  baptism 
that  frightened  Mme.  Smithson.  Nev- 
ertheless, she  was  firm.  Eugenie 
was  brought  up  very  strictly,  and  her 
father  gradually  became  accustomed 
to  her  being  a  Catholic,  to  see  her 
practise  her  religion,  and  even  hear 
her  speak  of  it  with  enthusiasm,  for 
she  was  enthusiastic  on  all  great 
themes. 

These  were,  it  must  be  said,  the 
only  concessions  Mr.  Smithson  made 
to  the  true  faith.  He  never  entered 
a  Catholic  church.  He  even  refused 
to  acknowledge  that  which  its  very 
enemies  are  forced  to  concede — the 
grandeur  and  utility  of  the  enter- 
prises she  alone  successfully  achieves ; 
the  efficacious  assistance  she  renders 
each  one  of  us  at  critical  moments 
in  our  lives;  and  the  happiness — 
earthly  happiness  even — that  she 
bestows  on  all  who  are  faithful  to 
her  teachings.  But  the  decided 
stand  Mr.  Smithson  took  against  the 
true  faith  was  specially  manifested 
by  his  antipathy  to  the  priesthood. 
Though  he  had  lived  a  year  and  a 

half  at  St.  M ,  he  had  never  had 

any  intercourse  with  the  Abbe  Bon- 
jean,  the  cure  of  the  commune.  Mme. 
Smithson  and  her  daughter  went  to 
High  Mass  every  Sunday,  made  the 
cur/  a  brief  call  on  New  Year's  Day, 
and  went  to  confession  at  Easter — 
that  was  all.  I  had  some  reason, 
therefore,  to  say  it  was  a  thing  of  no 
small  importance  to  see  the  abbt  at 
Mr.  Smithson's  table.  What  had 
effected  such  a  change  in  the  mind 
of  this  dogmatic  Englishman  ?  .  .  . 
Had  his  daughter  begged  it  as  a 
favor  ?  .  By  no  means.  Eu- 

genie was  not  pious  enough  to   care 


for  the  society  of  the  cur£.  .  . 
Had  Mme.  Smithson  ventured  to 
break  the  compact  which  forbade  her 
broaching,  even  remotely,  the  sub- 
ject of  religion  to  her  husband  ? 
Still  less  likely.  Madame  had  not 
the  courage  unless  forced  to  revolt 
against  some  enormity  like  apostasy. 
What  led  Mr.  Smithson  to  invite  the 
abbJ  was  the  result  of  his  own  re- 
flections. Since  he  had  taken  charge 
of  a  manufactory,  and  been  brought 
in  contact  with  a  large  number  of 
workmen,  some  poor  and  others  cor- 
rupt, he  had  felt  an  increasing  desire 
of  being  useful  to  them,  both  morally 
and  physically.  Mr.  Smithson  had 
really  a  noble  heart.  Catholic  bene- 
volence excited  his  admiration  more 
than  he  confessed.  It  caused  him 
to  reflect,  though  he  was  careful 
not  to  reveal  his  thoughts.  These 
salutary  reflections  had  gradually 
convinced  him  that,  if  he  wished  to 
reform  the  place,  he  must  obtain  the 
aid  of  some  one  not  only  of  good- 
will like  Louis,  but  of  incontestable 
moral  authority.  .  .  .  Where  find 
a  person  with  more  means  than  the 
curt?  .  .  .  With  the  extreme 
prudence  habitual  to  him — and  he 
was  more  cautious  now  than  ever,  as  it 
was  a  question  of  a  priest — he  was 
desirous  of  studying  his  future 
co-laborer.  He  could  not  help  it; 
this  black-robed  man  inspired  him 
with  distrust.  "I  will  begin  by 
studying  him,"  he  said  to  himself; 
"  and,  for  that,  he  must  come  to  my 
house."  This  plan  decided  upon,  he 
acted  accordingly.  Without  telling 
any  one  of  his  secret  intention,  with- 
but  even  giving  a  hint  of  it,  except  to 
his  wife  and  daughter  at  the  last  mo- 
ment, he  invited  the  abb£. 

Louis  had  already  begun  to  under- 
stand his  employer's  prejudices,  and 
was  therefore  extremely  astonished 
when  he  arrived  to  find  the  cur/ had 
been  invited.  But  his  astonishment 


66 


Madame  Agnes. 


was  mingled  with  joy.  He  had  al- 
ready become  acquainted  with  the 
abbe,  and  had  been  to  confession 
to  him  more  than  once,  and  had 
more  than  one  conversation  with  him. 
The  curt  was  even  aware  of  all 
Louis'  plans,  and,  as  may  be  sup- 
posed, gave  them  his  entire  approba- 
tion. 

There  was  some  stiffness  and  em- 
barrassment as  the  guests  seated 
themselves  at  table,  and  looked  at 
one  another;  but,  after  a  few  mo- 
ments, the  genuine  simplicity  of  the 
abbe",  who  was  no  fool,  and  the  doc- 
tor's facetiousness,  broke  the  ice. 
Mr.  Smithson  alone  maintained  his 
usual  reserve.  He  had  sent  for  the 
abbe  that  he  might  study  his  charac- 
ter, and  he  was  not  neglecting  it. 
As  to  Louis,  seated  opposite  Euge- 
nie, he  seemed  to  emulate  the  wise 
man  of  the  Scriptures  who  had  made 
a  compact  with  his  eyes  and  his 
tongue.  He  tempered  the  fire  of  his 
eye,  restrained  his  flow  of  words,  and 
courageously  filled  the  part  he  had 
imposed  on  himself — that  of  a  man 
serious  unto  coldness,  calm  unto  in- 
sen^ibility. 

Everything  passed  off  very  well  till 
the  dessert.  Mr.  Smithson  then  di- 
rected the  conversation  to  the  condi- 
tion of  his  workmen,  and  spoke  of 
his  desire  to  ameliorate  it.  Eugenie 
warmly  applauded  what  her  father 
said ;  she  spoke  of  some  visits  she  had 
made,  and  gave  many  interesting  de- 
tails respecting  the  families  she  had 
assisted. 

The  good  abbe"  had,  alas!  one 
fault.  Priests  have  their  faults  as 
well  as  we — fewer,  without  doubt, 
but  still  they  have  some.  The  curfs 
defect  was  a  want  of  prudence.  He 
was  agreeable  in  conversation,  and 
had  the  best  intentions  in  the  world, 
but  he  did  not  weigh  his  words  suffi- 
ciently. He  never  troubled  himself 
about  the  interpretation,  malevolent 


or  otherwise,  that  certain  people  might 
give  to  them.  He  was  a  good  man, 
but  not  sufficiently  mindful  of  our  Sa- 
viour's counsel  to  be  wise  as  a  serpent 
and  simple  as  a  dove.  He  was  ami- 
able and  sincere,  but  lacking  in  dis- 
cretion :  that  was  a  misfortune.  At 
a  time  of  religious  indifference  and  of 
impiety  like  ours,  more  than  usual 
prudence  is  necessary  for  all  who  love 
their  religion:  the  impious  are  so 
glad  to  find  a  pretext  for  their  calum- 
nies! The  abbe"  now  began  in  the 
heartiest  manner,  and  very  sincerely 
too,  to  compliment  Mr.  Smithson  for 
all  he  had  said,  and  Mile.  Eugenie 
for  all  she  had  done.  He  gave  a 
thrilling  but  true  sketch  of  the  ra- 
vages want  and  immorality  were  mak- 
ing among  the  working-classes,  and 
dwelt  on  the  necessity  of  an  immedi- 
ate and  efficacious  remedy.  All  this 
was  proper.  There  was  nothing  so 
far  to  criticise.  But  the  abbe  should 
have  stopped  there.  He  had,  how- 
ever, the  indiscretion  to  keep  on, 
adding  many  things  ill  adapted  to 
those  before  whom  he  was  speaking. 
"I  know  what  remedies  are  neces- 
sary," said  he ;  "  and  who  of  us  does 
not  ?  They  are  —  instruction  to  a 
certain  degree,  visiting  the  poor  in 
their  houses,  dropping  a  good  word, 
and,  above  all,  the  infinite  service  of 
leading  them  back  to  the  holy  Catho- 
lic religion,  which  alone  knows  how 
to  influence  the  heart  of  man,  and 
inspire  benevolent  souls  with  the  wis- 
dom and  perseverance  necessary  for 
perfecting  their  noble  enterprises.  I 
hope  I  wound  no  one's  feelings  in 
expressing  myself  thus.  What  I  have 
said  is  only  a  well  -  known  truth, 
readily  acknowledged  by  a  multitude 
of  upright  souls  who  have  not,  how- 
ever, the  happiness  of  belonging  to 
us." 

Mr.  Smithson  said  nothing.  He 
felt  the  shaft,  however  blunted,  that 
was  aimed  so  directly  at  him.  The 


Madame  Agnes. 


cur/  himself  seemed  conscious  of  hav- 
ing gone  too  far  in  the  ardor  of  his 
untimely  zeal.  The  Englishman  was 
one  of  those  men  who  only  retort 
when  obliged  to :  he  remained  silent. 
The  poor  cur/  hurt  himself  still  more 
by  enthusiastically  eulogizing  Louis  a 
few  minutes  after  in  these  words : 
"  M.  Louis,  by  another  year,  you  will 
have  shown  yourself  the  good  angel 
of  the  whole  country  around." 

This  appeared  exaggerated  to  Mr. 
Smithson.  It  excited  his  jealousy, 
already  awakened.  He  imagined  he 
saw  proofs  of  an  understanding  be- 
tween the  cure  and  the  engineer  in 
this  unfortunate  remark.  Their  un- 
derstanding had  an  evident  aim,  in 
Mr.  Smithson's  eyes,  to  diminish  his 
moral  influence,  and  even  suppress 
it.  "  That  is  the  way  with  Catholic 
priests,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  They 
are  ambitious,  scheming,  eager  to 
rule,  and  knowing  how  to  find  ac- 
complices everywhere."  The  curt 
and  Louis  thenceforth  became  objects 
of  suspicion,  though  he  was  careful 
not  to  show  it  outwardly. 

Louis  had  begun  to  understand 
human  nature,  and  at  once  realized 
all  the  imprudence  of  the  curfs  re- 
marks. He  foresaw  the  bad  effect 
they  would  have  on  the  master  of 
the  house.  He  tried  in  vain,  by 
some  adroit  turn  in  the  conversation, 
to  lessen,  if  not  to  annul,  the  unfortu- 
nate impression  the  abbfs  conversa- 
tion might  have  produced.  The  curl 
persisted  in  his  opinion,  and  only 
added  to  his  previous  blunder.  Louis 
felt  he  should  not  gain  anything,  and 
stopped  short  with  so  distressed  an 
air  that  it  was  pitiful  to  see  him. 

Mr.  Smithson,  led  away  by  his 
prejudices,  thought  Louis'  depression 
the  consequence  of  his  accomplice's 
betraying  so  awkwardly  the  secret  tie 
between  them.  "The  engineer  is, 
perhaps,  the  more  dangerous  of  the 
two,"  he  said  to  himself.  . "  I  should 


never  have  suspected  their  plan,  had 
it  not  been  for  the  abbfs  imprudent 
frankness."  Hence  he  concluded 
there  would  be  more  need  than  ever 
of  keeping  an  eye  on  his  subordin- 
ate. 

Eugenie,  though  not  pious,  under- 
stood her  religion  too  well,  and  lov- 
ed it,  or  rather,  admired  it  too  much, 
to  be  astonished  at  what  the  cure 
had  said.  She  thoroughly  agreed  with 
him,  but,  as  the  conversation  became 
serious,  she  only  attended  to  the 
most  important  points,  and  paid  but 
little  attention  to  the  abbe's  impru- 
dent remarks.  The  praise  he  be- 
stowed on  Louis  did  not  seem  to  her 
excessive.  She  rather  approved  than 
condemned  it.  She  did  not,  there- 
fore, suspect  the  cause  of  Louis' 
sadness,  but  attributed  it  to  a  want 
of  ease  naturally  occasioned  by  the 
inferior  position  into  which  he  had 
been  thrown  by  his  misfortunes. 
More  than  once  she  came  to  his  aid, 
politely  addressing  the  conversation 
to  him.  Seeing  him  still  preoccupi- 
ed, she  ended  by  proposing  after 
dinner  that  he  should  sing  something 
to  her  accompaniment.  Louis  ex- 
cused himself.  "  I  insist  upon  it," 
she  said,  in  a  tone  of  sweet  authority 
that  instantly  transported  him  into 
a  new  world.  He  forgot  the  curfs 
imprudence,  its  probable  effect  on 
Mr.  Smithson,  and  his  own  difficult 
position.  The  first  time  for  a  long 
while — ten  years,  perhaps — he  had 
one  of  those  moments  of  cloudless 
happiness  that  rarely  falls  to  man's 
lot,  and  can  never  be  forgotten.  It 
seemed  as  if  a  mysterious,  ravishing 
voice  whispered  that  Eugenie  was 
beginning  to  love  him.  At  least,  he 
no  longer  doubted  for  the  moment 
the  possibility  ojf  her  loving  him 
some  day.  Louis  had  the  soul  of 
an  artist,  and  possessed  undoubted 
talent,  and  he  sang  that  evening  as 
he  had  never  sung  in  his  life. 


68 


Madame  Agnes. 


When  the  song  was  ended,  he 
turned  toward  Eugenie,  and  read  in 
her  eyes  sincere  astonishment  and 
admiration,  but  nothing  else.  All 
his  doubts,  all  his  sadness,  revived. 
An  instant  before,  his  heart  over- 
flowed with  joy :  now  he  was  so 
cast  down  that  he  was  alarmed,  and 
wondered  what  misfortune  was  going 
to  happen  to  him.  I  am  not  exag- 
gerating: ardent  natures  often  pass 
through  such  alternations  of  extreme 
joy  and  sadness.  The  evening  pass- 
ed away  without  any  new  incident. 
Before  midnight,  the  guests  returned 
home,  and  were  free  to  yield  to  their 
own  thoughts.  The  few  hours  just 
elapsed  had  modified  the  sentiments 
of  all  who  had  dined  together  at 
Mr.  Smithson's. 

Eugenie,  without  allowing  it  to 
appear  outwardly,  had  also  had  one 
of  those  sudden  revelations  that  like 
a  flash  reveal  everything  with  unex- 
pected clearness.  For  the  first  time, 
she  fully  realized  the  possibility  of 
loving  one  whom  she  at  first  despis- 
ed. Louis'  dignified,  melancholy  air, 
his  grave,  earnest  manner  of  convers- 
ing, his  remarkable  musical  ta,lent, 
and  the  sympathetic  tone  of  his  voice, 
all  produced  an  effect  on  Eug6nie  she 
had  never  experienced  before.  Not 
that  she  loved  him  yet,  but  she  ask- 
ed herself  how  long  her  indifference 
would  last.  First  impressions  are 
hard  to  efface  from  ardent  souls. 
Eugenie  was  alarmed  at  the  idea  of 
loving  one  who  had  at  first  inspired 
her  with  so  much  distrust.  She  re- 
solved to  watch  more  carefully  over 
herself,  and  keep  an  observant  eye 
on  one  who  might  take  a  place  in 
her  heart  she  did  not  wish  to  give, 
unless  for  ever. 

This  was  wise.  One  cannot  take 
too  much  precaution  when  there  is 
reason  to  fear  the  heart  is  disposed 
to  yield.  The  heart  is  the  best  or 
the  worst  of  counsellors,  according 


as  it  is  guided  or  abandoned  by  rea- 
son. Besides,  Eugenie  was  wholly 
ignorant  of  Louis'  feelings  towards 
her. 

Poor  Louis  ended  the  evening  in 
disheartening  reflections.  He  began 
by  dwelling  on  a  painful  alternative  : 
either  Eugenie  did  not  suspect  his 
love  for  her,  or,  if  she  perceived  it, 
her  only  response  was  a  coldness 
that  was  discouraging.  "And  yet," 
thought  he,  "  if  I  am  mistaken  !  .  .  . 
If  she  already  loves  me  in  her 
heart!  .  .  .  If  at  least  she  could  some 
day  love  me  !"  .  .  .  He  smiled.  Then 
another  fear,  still  worse  than  the 
rest,  crossed  his  mind.  "  Well,  if  it 
were  so,  there  would  be  another  ob- 
stacle in  the  way  more  dangerous 
than  the  indifference  of  Mile.  Euge- 
nie herself — the  opposition  of  her 
father.  He  would  never  consent  t» 
the  marriage.  His  antipathy  to  me 
has  always  been  evident.  The  abbt 
has  completed  my  ruin.  I  am 
henceforth  a  dangerous  man — a  fa- 
natic— in  Mr.  Smithson's  eyes !" 

«  What  shall  I  do  ?"  added  Louis, 
by  way  of  conclusion.  "Shall  I 
give  up  the  work  I  have  undertaken  ? 
Ought  I  to  practise  my  religion  se- 
cretly, in  order  to  give  no  offence  ? 
.  .  .  No,  indeed;  that  would  be 
cowardly,  unworthy  of  a  man  of  cour- 
age, and  criminal  ingratitude  towards 
God,  who  has  been  so  merciful  to 
me.  .  .  .  No  hateful  concessions  \ 
With  the  divine  assistance,  I  will  do 
what  I  think  is  for  the  best.  What- 
ever happens  will  be  the  will  of 
'God.  .  .  .  Whatever  it  may  be,  I 
shall  be  sure  of  having  nothing  to 
repent  of.  ..." 

To  be  serious,  I  should  add  that 
Louis,  in  forming  this  resolution, 
was  not  so  heroic  as  he  really 
believed  himself  to  be.  He  was 
young,  he  was  in  love :  and  youth 
and  love  have  always  some  hope  in 
store. 


Madame  Agnes. 


69 


It  is  useless  to  speak  of  Mr.  Smith-  sad  Louis'  position  might  be,  it  was 

Bon.    We  are  aware  of  his  sentiments,  soon   to  become   still   more   so.     A 

Louis  was  not   wrong   in   his   fears  new    cloud   was   rising   without   his 

respecting  him.     And  yet,   however  suspecting  it. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 


ALBERT  S  VISIT. 


FANNY,  after  despatching  her  letter, 
was  filled  with  an  uneasiness  that 
was  continually  increasing.  "  Will 
he  get  here  in  season  ?"  she  asked 
herself.  "  Perhaps  mademoiselle  will 
have  come  to  a  decision  before 
Albert  arrives." 

But  however  partial  Fanny  might 
be  to  her  pcotege,  she  could  not 
help  seeing  that  Louis  possessed  rare 
qualities.  If  her  interests  had  not 
been  at  stake,  she  would  have  con- 
fessed at  once  that  he  alone  was 
worthy  of  Mile.  Smithson ;  but  her 
selfishness  kept  her  wilfully  blind. 

Alas !  day  after  day  passed  away 
without  result.  The  wonderful  letter 
Fanny  depended  so  much  on  pro- 
duced no  effect.  Twenty  times  a 
day  she  went  from  despair  into 
anger. 

"  Such  a  fine  dowry !"  she  would 
exclaim.  "  Such  a  pretty  girl !  And 
he  allowing  them  to  slip  through  his 
fingers — to  fall  into  the  hands  of 
another — and  what  other!  ...  A 
spendthrift  who  will  squander  her 
property — a  libertine  who  will  neg- 
lect his  wife !  .  .  .  Ah  !  she  might 
be  so  happy  with  him,  and  he  with 
her  !  And  I  should  be  so  sure  of  an 
easy  life  in  their  house  !  What  is  he 
doing  ?  ...  Is  he  absorbed  ^n 
trifles,  and  going  to  lose  such  an 
opportunity  ?  I  was  right :  he  is 
light-headed.  But  his  mother,  Mine. 
Fremin,  has  sense  enough,  I  am 
sure,  and  has  longed  for  this  match 
these  ten  years :  is  she  asleep  too  ? 
Or  has  she  changed  her  mind?  .  .  ." 

When  the  day  of  the  dinner  came, 
of  which  I  have  just  spoken,  Fanny's 


distress  was  unbounded.  "  The  ene- 
my is  constantly  gaining  ground," 
she  muttered  to  herself.  "  Every 
day  Mile.  Eugenie  becomes  less  in- 
different towards  him.  Perhaps  they 
will  come  to  an  understanding  to- 
night, and  vow  to  love  each  othor. 
We  are  lost !  Albert  is  positively  a 
simpleton !" 

When  Eugenie  retired  to  her 
chamber,  Fanny,  quivering  with  ex- 
citement, was  there  to  eye  her  nar- 
rowly, hoping  to  read  the  depths  of 
her  soul.  She  saw  her  mistress  was 
more  thoughtful  than  usual,  and 
began  by  artfully  praising  Louis. 
Eugenie  seemed  to  listen  with  plea- 
sure. All  this  caused  the  wily  servant 
a  sleepless  night.  .  .  .  When  daylight 
appeared,  Fanny  had  decided  on  her 
course.  This  soubrette  was  a  long- 
headed woman ! 

"  If  I  had  to  choose  a  husband  for 
Mile.  Eugenie,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"  I  certainly  should  not  select  M. 
Louis.  Mademoiselle  would  be  far 
happier  with  Albert.  As  to  him,  he 
will  never  find  another  equal  to  her. 
But  I  cannot  force  them  to  be  happy. 
It  is  their  own  affair.  Mine  is  to 
look  out  for  my  own  interests.  .  .  . 
What  do  I  want  ?  ...  To  secure  a 
pleasant  home  for  the  rest  of  my  life. 
Perhaps  this  new  suitor  would  give 
me  one.  ...  Is  he  really  as  much 
of  a  spendthrift,  and  as  overbearing, 
as  I  feared  at  first  ?  I  have  seen 
him  only  a  few  times,  but  I  know 
him  well  enough  to  see  I  may  have 
been  greatly  deceived,  and  that  there 
is  much  more  in  him  than  I  suppos- 
ed. ...  Well,  that  is  settled  :  if  Al- 


Madame  Agnes. 


bert  is  not  here  in  season,  if  I  see  the 
other  one  is  likely  to  win  the  day,  I 
shall  take  sides  with  him.  .  .  .  But  I 
will  make  one  more  sacrifice  for  the 
ungrateful  fellow  whom  I  have  loved 
so  much  !  I  will  write  his  mother 
again,  and  wait  a  few  days  long- 
er. .  .  ." 

She  wrote,  and  did  not  have  long 
to  wait.  Albert  arrived  the  next 
day  but  one.  When  he  appeared, 
Funny  almost  sank  to  the  ground 
with  astonishment  and  joy :  with 
joy,  because  she  loved  him  as  spin- 
sters always  love  when  they  love  at 
all — with  as  much  strength  as  self- 
ishness; with  astonishment,  for  she 
hardly  recognized  him.  She  had  not 
seen  him  for  a  year  and  a  half.  He 
was  then  in  the  third  year  of  his  law 
sludies — a  young  man  of  sprightly, 
jovial  air,  faultless  in  dress,  and  flu- 
ent of  speech,  though  he  only  talked 
of  trifles.  .  .  .  Quantum  mutatus! 
.  .  .  He  now  had  a  grave  air,  his  dress 
was  plain  even  to  severity,  and  there 
was  a  solemnity  in  his  manner  of 
speaking  that  confounded  Fanny, 
but,  which  pleased  her.  What  had 
wrought  such  a  change?  She  was 
dying  to  know,  but  had  to  wait  to 
be  enlightened  on  the  point  till  she 
could  see  him  in  private.  This  could 
not  take  place  at  once.  He  must 
renew  his  acquaintance  with  his 
uncle,  aunt,  and  cousin. 

Albert's  sudden  arrival  caused 
some  surprise,  but  not  very  much, 
however,  for  he  had  promised  sever- 
al months  before  to  come  about  this 
time.  Mr.  Smithson  received  him 
with  his  usual  quiet,  somewhat  cool 
regard.  He  looked  upon  his  nephew 
as  frivolous,  and  for  such  people  he 
had  no  liking.  But  Mme.  Smithson 
gave  her  dear  Albert  a  very  different 
reception.  She  loved  him  for  his 
own  sake,  and  especially  for  his 
mother's,  whom  she  regarded  with 
affection  and  pity.  She  was  quite 


well  aware  that  her  sister's  income 
was  very  limited,  and  to  see  Albert 
marry  her  daughter  would  by  no 
means  have  been  repugnant  to  her. 
Eugenie  also  received  her  cousin 
with  the  pleasure  and  cordiality  nat- 
ural to  a  relative  meeting  the  friend 
of  her  childhood. 

In  the  course  of  two  hours,  he  was 
made  to  feel  quite  at  home,  at  liberty 
to  go  where  he  pleased,  and  to  do 
what  he  liked.  All  the  family  had 
some  employment,  Eugenie  as  well 
as  her  parents.  Albert  at  once  pro- 
fited by  this  liberty  to  prendre  langue, 
as  the  saying  is — to  get  the  news  from 
Fanny.  For  had  she  not  induced 
him  to  come  here,  and  made  him 
aware  of  her  projects?  .  .  . 
He  found  her  in  a  small  building 
not  far  from  the  house.  It  was  on 
the  banks  of  the  river,  which  was 
more  charming  here  than  in  any 
other  part.  Its  peaceful  current  glid- 
ed between  high  banks  where  grew 
on  either  hand  a  row  of  willows 
whose  pendant  branches  swept  the 
very  waters.  Everything  was  de- 
lightfully quiet  and  romantic.  It 
was  Eugenie's  favorite  retreat,  where 
she  often  came  in  the  morning  to 
read,  or  to  muse  as  the  day  declined. 
But  Albert  gave  no  heed  to  the 
beauties  of  nature  around  him. 

"  At  last  we  can  have  a  talk,  my 
good  Fanny,"  said  he :  "  talk  of  our 
mutual  plans,  eh !  eh  ! — for  it  seems 
you,  too,  wish  me  to  marry  Eugenie. 
Our  plans  are  in  danger,  if  I  am  to 
believe  your  two  letters :  it  is  possi- 
bfe  I  may  be  set  aside  !  That  would 
be  a  pity !  My  cousin  is  handsomer 
than  ever.  .  .  .  But  to  tell  the  truth, 
her  style  of  beauty  is  not  exactly  to 
my  taste :  she  is  too  dignified. 
But  ...  " 

"  Too  dignified !  .  .  .  Mademoi- 
selle is  enchanting ;  and  then,  there 
is  her  fortune,  which  it  is  no  harm  to 
consider." 


Madame  Agnes. 


"My  uncle's  losses  have  made  a 
nole  in  it,  however." 

"  But  they  are  being  repaired 
every  day  by  his  industry.  You 
would  not  believe  how  profitable 
this  mill  is.  Come,  tell  me  plainly, 
will  you  ever  find  a  wife  as  rich  ?— 
with  even  half  as  much  as  she  will 
have?  ..." 

"Ma foil  no." 

"  And  the  money  you  would  never 
find  again  you  have  come  near  let- 
ting slip  into  another's  hands !  .  .  . 
There  is  some  danger  of  it  still." 

"  You  alarm  me." 

"  It  is  just  so.  Why  were  you  so 
long  in  coming?" 

"  Because  .  .  .  Tiens,  my  dear,  I 
was  just  going  to  tell  you  a  fib,  but 
it  would  do  no  good.  I  may  as  well 
show  my  hand.  ...  I  came  very  re- 
luctantly, because  I  prefer  my  bache- 
lor life.  It  would  suit  me  better  to 
wait  a  while.  Would  it  be  danger- 
ous to  ask  a  delay  of  two  or  four 
years  ?" 

"  Ah  !  it  is  not  enough  to  furnish 
you  with  a  handsome  wife  and  a  fine 
fortune !  One  must  wait  till  you  are 
disposed  to  accept  them !  Where 
are  your  wits  ?" 

"  Come,  do  not  get  angry.  I  see 
I  must  marry  her  at  once.  I  will  do 
as  you  say.  Here,  I  am  all  ready  to 
listen  to  your  advice,  for  you  must 
tell  me  what  I  am  to  do." 

"  You  give  in  ?  You  may  as 
well !  Come,  own  that  you  gave  me 
a  false  impression.  And  I  was  so 
pleased  !  Your  grave  air  and  plain 
dress  made  me  hope  you  were  con- 
verted— I  see  I  was  mistaken,  and 
am  sorry  for  it." 

"  A  fine  farce.  And  so  I  even  took 
you  in  !  But  did  you  not  tell  me  to 
come  here  like  a  man  seriously  dis- 
posed ?  If  I  succeeded  in  deceiving 
you,  the  disguise  must  be  perfect. 
The  rest  are  more  easily  taken  in 
than  you!  .  .  .  But  that  is  not  the 


point.  You  look  quite  frightened. 
What  are  you  afraid  of?" 

"  Everything,  and  principally  lest 
you  make  Mile.  Eugenie  unhappy." 

"  She  shall  be  mistress :  that  is 
what  she  likes — what  else  ?" 

"  When  you  are  married,  you  will 
no  longer  have  any  need  of  me,  and 
will  send  me  away." 

"  Send  you  away !  I  am  ready  to 
swear.  .  .  .  Here,  I  will  give  you  my 
promise  in  writing :  you  shall  never 
leave  my  house.  Fanny,  do  you 
think  me  capable  of  such  ingratitude  ? 
I  am  frivolous,  but  I  have  some 
heart,  you  well  know,  you  old  grum- 
bler. .  .  .  Well,  how  do  affairs  really 
stand  ?  .  .  .  Does  not  your  affection 
for  me  incline  you  to  take  too  gloomy 
a  view  of  things  ?  .  .  .  My  enemy 
— my  rival,  if  I  rightly  understand 
your  letters — is  a  fellow  who  ruined 
himself,  and  came  here  to  win  the 
beautiful  Eugenie's  heart  and  for- 
tune; he  is  very  sedate  in  appear- 
ance, and  artful  in  reality.  But  it  is 
not  enough  to  be  ruined,  and  long 
for  a  fortune — the  thing  is  to  get  it. 
The  first  condition  is  to  please  the 
lady.  Is  he  a  handsome  fellow  ?" 

"  No ;  but  he  has  a  sensible,  refined 
face  calculated  to  strike  the  fancy  of 
a  young  lady  like  your  cousin." 

"  Has  he  much  wit  ?" 

"  He  talks  little,  but  well." 

"  He  is  religious,  I  think  you 
said  ?" 

"Yes;  he  has  founded  a  library 
and  a  school  for  the  benefit  of  the 
workmen,  and  he  visits  the  poor. 
All  this  affords  him  many  opportuni- 
ties of  meeting  Mile.  Eugenie.  She 
gives  him  books  for  his  library,  paper 
and  pens  for  his  school,  and  they 
agree  upon  the  families  to  visit." 

"  Ha !  he  is  a  knowing  fellow.  He 
thinks  that  a  good  way  to  please  my 
cousin  and  to  see  her.  Then  Eu- 
genie is  more  religious  than  she  used 
to  be?" 


Madame  Agnes. 


"  It  seems  so,  but  you  know  it  is 
not  easy  to  tell  what  is  going  on  in 
mademoiselle's  heart." 

"  Fanny,  you  have  rendered  me  a 
service  I  shall  never  forget.  It  was 
time  to  come — high  time.  I  am 
even  afraid  I  am  too  late.  Have 
you  detected  anything  to  make  you 
think  her  in  love  with  him  already  ?" 

"  She  -began  by  regarding  him  with 
aversion.  This  softened  into  indif- 
ference. What  further  change  there 
is  I  do  not  know." 

"  What  caused  her  aversion  ?" 

"  She  thought  he  came  here  to 
catch  her." 

"  The  deuce !" 

"  His  piety  seemed  to  her  mere 
artifice." 

"  Evidently  !  ...  Is  any  one  ever 
converted  without  a  motive  ?" 

"  You  are  a  wicked  creature,  Al- 
bert. Louis  may  be  a  hypocrite, 
but  all  religious  people  are  not  hypo- 
crites. I  even  begin  to  think  he  is 
not." 

"  Come,  go  on !  ...  Well,  I  see 
Eugenie  regards  him  as  a  saint.  She 
admires  him,  if  nothing  more.  The 
danger  is  imminent." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 
Nothing  wrong,  I  hope." 

"  Be  easy  on  that  score.  I  am 
going  to  keep  an  eye  on  that  man, 
and  study  him.  If  he  is  sincere,  I 
will  make  him  ridiculous ;  if  he  is 
false,  I  will  unmask  him.  Of  course, 
I  shall  also  employ  other  means.  If 
Eugenie  is  not  yet  in  love  with  him, 
I  shall  be  the  foremost  to  win  her 
heart.  If  she  is  attached  to  him,  I 
shall  do  my  utmost  to  appear  more 
worthy  of  her  regard,  and  to  rout 
him.  It  is  unnecessary  to  say  I  shall 
persist  in  my  role  as  a  person  of 
gravity.  Eugenie  is  absurdly  roman- 
tic. I  must  endeavor  to  appear 
more  saintly  than  this  new  apostle. 
No  one  will  suspect  the  farce.  It  is 
an  age  since  I  was  here,  and  it  would 


not  be  astonishing  if  I  also  had  been 
converted  during  the  interval." 

"  Don't  go  too  far  !" 

"  You  may  rely  on  that.  There  is 
only  one  thing  I  am  anxious  about. 
Have  I  not  some  invisible  obstacle  to 
contend  against  ?  .  .  .  Eugenie  has  a 
will  of  her  own.  If  she  has  already 
made  up  her  mind,  if  her  heart  is  set 
on  him,  all  my  attempts  would  be  of 
no  avail." 

"  Things  have  not  come  to  that 
pass  yet,  I  have  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve. I  know  where  and  when  she 
has  seen  him,  and  what  he  has  said 
to  her.  She  only  regards  him  with 
esteem,  yoa  may  be  sure." 

After  deciding  on  his  plans,  Albert 
had  but  one  wish — to  put  them  at 
once  in  execution.  That  very  even- 
ing at  dinner  he  directed  the  conver- 
sation to  Louis.  Mme.  Smithson 
heartily  praised  the  engineer.  Mr. 
Smithson  neither  praised  nor  spoke 
disparagingly  of  him.  He  kept  his 
suspicions  with  regard  to  Louis  to 
himself.  He  was  not  in  the  habit 
of  doing  anything  hastily,  but  had 
fully  made  up  his  mind  to  dismiss 
him  if  he  found  him  as  thorough  a 
Catholic  as  he  had  reason  to  believe; 
that  is,  an  overzealous  one,  secretly 
contriving  with  the  curt  all  sorts  of 
dark  plots,  the  idea  of  which  alarmed 
him. 

Eugenie,  in  a  perfectly  natural 
manner,  confirmed  all  her  mother 
had  said,  spoke  of  the  good  works 
he  had  undertaken,  and  finally  men- 
tioned the  part  she  had  had  in  them. 

"  I  also  should  be  delighted  to 
participate  in  all  these  laudable  un- 
dertakings," said  Albert.  "  I  must 
tell  you,  dear  cousin,  that  I  am  be- 
ginning to  be  reasonable.  I  take  an 
interest  in  studying  the  great  social 
problems,  especially  the  extinction 
of  pauperism,  and  the  moral  improve- 
ment of  the  lower  classes." 

Mr.  Smith  icn  gave  Albert  an  in 


Madame  Agnes. 


73 


credulous  look,  and  Eugenie  broke 
out  into  unrestrained  laughter. 

11  Well,"  said  Albert,  intimidated 
and  cut  to  the  quick,  "you  shall 
see  if  what  I  tell  you  is  not  true ! 
To-morrow  I  will  visit  this  wonderful 
school,  and  offer  my  services  to  the 
person  who  has  charge  of  it.  I  rath- 
er think  they  will  not  be  refused." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Eugenie,  "  how  amus- 
ing it  will  be  to  see  you  drilling 
under  M.  Louis'  orders !  .  .  .  You 
will  soon  have  enough  of  it." 

"  You  think  me  fickle,  then  ?" 

"  Rather  so." 

"You  are  mistaken.  I  always 
like  the  same  things,  and  especially 
the  same  people,  my  dear  cousin." 

"  How  gallant  you  have  become," 
said  Eug6nie,  laughing  again.  "  But 
what  has  come  over  us  !  We  used 
to  say  tho u  to  each  other ;  now  we 
say  you.  Once  we  kept  up  a  succes- 
sion of  compliments  anything  but 
flattering  to  each  other,  and  here  you 
are  now  gracious,  amiable,  and  com- 
plimentary beyond  description !  It 
is  a  pity  I  can  make  no  return.  .  .  . 
But  it  is  all  in  vain,  my  dear  Albert ; 
neither  your  white  cravat  nor  your 
subdued  air  can  deceive  me.  My 
aunt  wrote  me  not  long  ago  that  you 
were  just  the  same.  Do  you  hear  ? 
— your  own  mother  said  there  was 
no  change  in  you." 

This  unvarnished  statement  had 
really  been  made  in  one  of  Mme. 
Fremin's  letters.  She  little  thought 
of  injuring  her  son  by  showing  him 
in  so  true  a  light. 

"  My  mother  was  mistaken,"  said 
Albert,  exceedingly  vexed  at  such 
annoying  remarks ;  "  or  rather,  you 
have  given  a  wrong  interpretation  to 
her  words.  I  am  indeed  the  same 
in  a  certain  sense.  When  there  is 
cause  for  laughter,  I  am  ready  to 
laugh.  But  though  it  is  proper  to 
laugh  at  suitable  times,  I  feel  that 
excessive  and  constant  gaiety  is  un- 


worthy of  a  man  who  aspires  to  a 
high  place  in  the  estimation  of 
others." 

"  Ah  !  to  think  of  your  sermoniz 
ing,  my  dear  cousin,"  cried  Eugenie 
looking  at  him  with  a  mocking  air 
"  But  now  I  begin  to  understanc 
your  behavior.  .  .  .  Yes ;  that  is  it. 
.  .  .  You  have  an  eye  to  the  bench. 
You  consider  gravity  as  part  of  a 
judge's  outfit.  You  are  right,  but 
between  ourselves,  as  no  one  hears 
you,  confess  that  the  mask  is  any- 
thing but  comfortable." 

Albert  was  vexed  and  uneasy. 
His  attempts  were  in  vain  :  he  could 
not  persuade  Eugenie  he  was  really 
what  he  wished  to  appear.  His  sa- 
gacious cousin  continued  to  banter 
him  with  a  wit  he  found  it  difficult  to 
ward  off. 

Eugenie  had  no  special  design  in 
her  bantering,  but  her  very  simplicity 
and  wit  disarmed  Albert,  and  thwart- 
ed his  plans.  How  far  this  was  from 
the  belle  passion  he  hoped  to  inspire ! 
Eugenie  treated  him  merely  like  a 
cousin,  almost  like  a  boy.  He  re- 
solved to  let  her  see  he  was  a  man 
— a  thoughtful  and  even  religious 
man,  "To-morrow,"  thought  he, 
"  I  will  go  and  beard  the  lion  in  his 
den.  I  will  watch  him  narrowly ;  I 
will  become  his  friend  in  order  to 
thwart  him.  When  I  have  convinc- 
ed my  uncle  and  aunt  there  a?e 
others  quite  as  rational  as  this  gen- 
tleman, without  being  fanatics  like 
him — for  he  is  one,  according  to  Eu- 
genie's own  account — when  I  have 
won  the  admiration  of  my  romantic 
cousin,  then  we  will  think  of  wooing. 
But  we  must  begin  by  driving  this 
Jesuit  away.  Really,  the  comedy 
begins  to  interest  me.  A  fine  fortune 
and  a  pretty  wife  are  at  stake.  More- 
over, there  is  this  dismal  creature  to 
cover  with  confusion.  If  I  do  not 
come  off  conqueror,  it  will  be  because 
the  fates  are  strangely  against  me." 


74 


Madame  Agnes. 


Such  were  Albert's  thoughts  after 
retiring  to  his  chamber.  Then  he 
betook  himself  to  a  novel.  He 
was  delighted  to  find  himself  so 
shrewd,  and  had  no  doubt  of  his  suc- 
cess. 

At  that  same  hour,  Louis  was 
also  awake,  but  absorbed  in  prayer. 
Piety  daily  increased  in  his  steadfast 
soul :  so  did  love  in  his  heart.  Al- 
bert's arrival,  which  he  was  at  once 
informed  of,  produced  a  painful  im- 
pression. "  Mr.  Smithson  distrusts 
me,"  he  said  to  himself;  "  Eug6nie 
does  not  yet  love  me  :  it  will  be  easy 
for  this  young  man  to  win  the  place 
I  covet  in  her  heart."  He  dwelt  on 
these  sad  thoughts  for  some  time, 


but  soon  had  recourse  to  his  usual 
source  of  consolation,  and  confided 
all  his  cares  to  God.  The  prayer  he 
uttered  might  be  summed  up  in  these 
few  words,  so  full  of  Christian  hero- 
ism :  "  O  my  God !  if  it  is  in  his 
power  to  render  her  happier  than  I 
could,  I  pray  thee  to  bestow  her  on 
him,  and  let  me  find  my  only  con- 
solation in  thee !  .  .  ."  The  true 
Christian  alone  can  so  purify  his  af- 
fections as  to  render  them  disinter- 
ested. When  Louis  fell  asleep,  he 
felt  a  storm  was  brewing  in  the  air, 
but  calmness  was  in  his  heart.  Re- 
signation, trust  in  God,  and  the 
purity  of  his  love  had  restored  seren- 
ity to  his  soul. 


CHAPTER   XX. 


A  VILLAIN. 


Albert  called  at  Louis'  office  about 
ten  o'clock  the  next  morning.  This 
office  was  in  the  centre  of  the  manu- 
factory, between  two  large  rooms 
always  filled  with  workmen.  Here 
Louis  was  confined  ten  long  hours  a 
day.  If  he  went  out  from  time  to 
time,  it  was  first  to  one  place,  and 
then  to  another,  to  keep  an  eye  on 
everything,  and  remedy  any  slight 
accident  that  might  have  occurred. 
He  everywhere  replaced  Mr.  Smith- 
son.  He  saw  to  everything,  and 
gave  orders  about  everything,  and 
acquitted  himself  of  these  duties  with 
an  ability  and  zeal  that  his  employer 
could  not  help  acknowledging.  He 
could  not  have  wished  for  an  assist- 
ant more  capable,  more  energetic,  or 
more  reliable.  Had  it  not  been  for 
one  suspicion  in  this  cold  Protest- 
ant's breast,  one  cause  of  antipathy 
against  this  overzealous  Catholic, 
Mr.  Smithson  would  not  only  have 
esteemed  Louis,  but  would  have  taken 
him  to  his  heart.  As  it  was,  he  con- 
tented himself  with  merely  esteeming 
him,  and  this  against  his  will. 


The  workmen  were  divided  into 
two  parties  with  respect  to  Louis. 
The  good,  who  were  the  least  numer- 
ous— alas  !  it  is  so  everywhere :  the 
majority  are  on  the  wrong  side — 
were  absolutely  devoted  to  him. 
The  bad  feared  him.  They  knew  he 
was  inflexible  when  there  was  any 
question  of  their  'morals  or  the  rules 
of  the  establishment.  Louis  would 
not  tolerate  drunkenness,  or  blas- 
phemy, or  any  improper  talk.  The 
fear  he  excited  among  the  bad  made 
him  extremely  hated  by  a  few. 

When  Albert  entered  the  engineer's 
office,  the  latter  went  forward  to 
meet  him  with  the  ease  of  a  man  of 
the  world  receiving  a  visit,  and  with 
the  reserve  of  a  diplomatist  who  finds 
himself  in  the  presence  of  an  adver- 
sary. From  the  very  moment  these  two 
men  first  saw  each  other,  they  felt  they 
were  opponents.  Each  one  had  a 
position  to  defend  which  the  othei 
sought  for,  and  both  were  conscious 
of  it.  Before  the  Parisian  uttered  a 
word,  Louis  divined  what  was  passing 
in  his  heart.  "  He  has  come  to  drive 


Madame  Agnes. 


me  away  and  marry  his  cousin," 
thought  he.  "  If  Providence  favors 
his  plans,  I  shall  submit.  But  it  was 
God  who  brought  me  hither.  I  do 
not  think  I  am  mistaken  in  believing 
he  has  given  me  a  work  to  do  here, 
and  I  shall  not  leave  till  I  clearly 
see  I  ought  to  give  it  up  and  go 
away." 

Albert  had  to  introduce  himself. 
"  I  am  Mr.  Smithson's  nephew," 
said  he,  "  a  licentiate  of  the  law,  and 
an  advocate  at  the  Paris  bar.  My 
relatives  have  for  a  long  time  urged 
me  to  visit  them,  and  I  have  profited 
by  an  interval  of  leisure  to  accept 
their  invitation.  I  am  aware,  mon- 
sieur, df  the  important  role  you  fill  in 
the  house,  and  what  a  useful  man 
you  are,  and  am  desirous  of  making 
your  acquaintance.  Besides,  I  have 
need  of  your  services." 

"  If  I  can  be  of  any  service  what- 
ever to  you,  monsieur,  I  assure  you 
it  will  give  me  great  pleasure  to 
serve  you." 

"  My  charming  cousin  Eugenie 
tells  me,  monsieur,  that  you  are  en- 
gaged in  things  I  am  likewise  inter- 
ested in — the  relief  of  the  poor  and 
the  instruction  of  the  ignorant  around 
you.  Eugenie  has  even  given  me  to 
understand  that  she  is  your  assistant 
in  this  work." 

Albert  kept  his  eyes  fastened  on 
Louis'  face  as  he  uttered  these  words. 
He  thought  he  would  betray  his 
feelings  at  such  a  greeting — at  the 
mere  name  of  Eugenie.  But  Louis' 
countenance  remained  impenetrable 
as  usual.  Albert  felt  he  had  before 
him  either  a  very  indiiferent  or  a 
very  shrewd  man. 

"  I  am  glad  to  learn,  monsieur," 
replied  Louis,  "  that  you  take  an  in- 
terest, as  well  as  I,  in  these  Christian 
labors,  which  in  these  times  are  more 
necessary  than  ever.  Poverty  and 
immorality  are  making  great  ravages. 
But  I  should  remark  that  I  am  a 


mere  novice  in  such  matters.  As 
Mile.  Eugenie  has  been  so  kind  as 
to  speak  of  me,  she  may  have  told 
you  how  little  I  have  yet  accom- 
plished. And  what  I  have  done  has 
only  been  through  Mr.  Smithson's 
constant  aid.  You  wish,  monsieur, 
to  be  initiated  into  my  undertakings. 
That  will  be  very  easy  !  I  will  show 
you  our  library,  scarcely  established, 
and  our  evening-school :  that  is  all." 

"  You  must  also  introduce  me  to 
your  poor.  I  am  seriously  dispos- 
ed to  make  a  practical  study  of 
the  great  questions  of  charity  and 
instruction.  They  are  quite  the  or- 
der of  the  day.  When  can  I  meet 
you?  .  .  ." 

"This  evening,  if  you  like;  the 
school  begins  at  seven  o'clockj" 

"And  what  do  yo*»  do  at  this 
school  ?" 

"  I  teach  reading  and  writing  to 
those  who  are  ignorant  of  them, 
orthography  to  some,  and  ciphering 
to  others.  I  end  by  reading  some- 
thing carefully  selected,  with  occa- 
sional remarks  easy  to  comprehend 
and  to  retain.  This  affords  me  a 
daily  opportunity  of  giving  my  au- 
dience useful  advice." 

Albert  made  a  slight  grimace. 
This  manner  of  procedure  did  not 
suit  him.  He  wished  for  exercises 
that  afforded  a  more  promising  field 
for  satisfying  his  vanity.  It  was  well 
to  propose  being  useful !  He  wished 
to  shine. 

They  continued  to  converse  a  while 
longer.  Louis,  with  the  shrewdness 
that  characterized  him,  led  the  con- 
versation to  the  most  serious  subjects. 
Albert  replied  without  suspecting 
the  scrutiny  he  was  undergoing. 
Faithful  to  his  role,  he  affected  to 
judge  matters  with  the  seriousness  of 
a  man  armed  with  unfaltering  convic 
tions.  But  this  seriousness  did  not 
blind  Louis.  Without  appearing  to 
observe  it,  he  caught  him  a  dozen 


76 


Madame  Agnes. 


times  in  criminal  ignorance,  and, 
what  was  worse,  this  ignorance  was 
accompanied  with  a  conceit  that  was 
ridiculous.  At  length  the  two  young 
men  separated.  They  had  formed 
an  opinion  of  each  other  at  the  first 
glance.  Louis  had  seen  through 
Albert's  mask,  and  found  him  a  man 
of  no  depth,  poorly  aping  a  person 
of  gravity.  Albert  felt  he  had  a  sa- 
gacious person  to  deal  with.  If 
Louis  was  his  rival,  he  was  a  formid- 
able one. 

It  may  be  supposed  that,  loving 
Eugenie  to  such  a  degree,  Louis 
felt,  as  an  impartial  observer  would 
have  done  in  his  place,  that  it  would 
be  sad  to  see  a  woman  of  so  much 
worth  united  to  a  superficial  man. 
He  could  not  help  feeling  that  he 
himself  was  more  worthy  of  Eugenie 
than  Albert ;  that  he  was  more  capa- 
ble of  making  her  happy.  He  was 
not  mistaken;  he  had  a  right  to 
think  so. 

A  few  days  after  this  first  interview, 
I  sent  Louis  word  that  Victor  was 
very  much  worse.  His  disease  had 
made  alarming  progress.  Victor 
had  hitherto  struggled  courageously 
against  it,  but,  the  evening  before, 
he  took  me  by  the  hand,  and,  fixing 
his  large  melancholy  eyes  on  mine, 
said : 

"  My  dear,  my  beloved  wife,  I  have 
kept  up  till  now,  and  continued  to 
work  as  usual.  But  the  hour  has 
come  for  me  to  lay  aside  all  earthly 
thoughts  and  cares.  ...  It  is  time  to 
collect  rny  thoughts.  .  .  .  Death  is 
approaching.  .  ." 

At  these  words,  I  began  to  weep 
and  sob.  He  waited  till  this  natural 
explosion  of  grief  was  over. 

"  I  can  realize  your  distress,  my 
good  Agnes,"  said  he.  "  I,  too,  feel 
how  painful  it  is  to  leave  you.  But 
we  are  both  Christians.  Our  religion 
is  a  source  of  never-failing  consola- 
tion. .  .  .  See  how  good  God  has 


been  to  us !  I  might  have  died  months 
ago  :  God  has  left  me  with  you  till 
now.  He  has  given  me  time  to  pre- 
pare to  enter  his  presence.  And  I 
truly  believe  that,  by  the  help  of  his 
grace,  I  have  made  a  good  use  of 
these  last  days.  I  have  found  and 
trained  a  man  to  succeed  me  in  the 
journal.  He  will  defend  the  good 
cause  as  well  as  I ;  perhaps  better. 
I  have  saved  the  life  of  a  young 
man  who  is  and  always  will  be  a 
consistent  Christian  such  as  we  need 
more  of.  I  shall,  I  hope,  have  a 
share  in  all  the  good  Louis  will  ac- 
complish; and  he  will  do  a  great 
deal.  ...  Of  course,  my  dear  Agnes, 
it  is  hard  to  separate  from  you,  but 
we  shall  meet  again  on  high.  The 
longest  life  is  but  brief.  How  happy 
we  shall  be  to  meet  again  far  from 
this  wretched  world,  which  I  should 
not  regret  were  it  not  for  leaving  you 
Every  day  it  gives  less  room  to  God  : 
the  impious  and  the  hypocritical  are 
fearfully  multiplying.  This  is  a  sad 
age  !  If  the  very  thought  of  leaving 
those  we  love  were  not  so  painful  to 
the  heart,  ah  !  how  sweet  it  would 
be  to  soar  away  from  so  much  wicked- 
ness to  the  pure  radiance  of  heaven. 
Why  cannot  I  carry  you  with  me, 
my  poor  darling  ?  Oh  !  how  glad  I 
should  then  be  to  go.  ...  But,  no ; 
it  is  not  the  will  of  God.  He  wishes 
me  to  precede  you,  alone.  So  be  it. 
When  in  yonder  world,  I  shall  pray 
for  you  !  .  .  .  And  now,  let  us  give 
up  all  worldly  things  to  those  who 
have  a  longer  time  to  live.  As  for 
me,  I  must  cease  to  labor,  and  hence- 
forth think  of  nothing  but  God  and 
my  salvation.  .  .  ." 

The  following  morning,  I  sent  Louis 
word  of  what  had  taken  place.  He 
hastened  to  see  us  that  afternoon. 
When  he  saw  our  dear  Victor,  he 
was  exceedingly  affected.  My  hus  • 
band  had  ^changed  every  way  within 
a  fortnight,  without  my  being  con- 


Madame  Agnes. 


77 


scious  of  it,  having  been  constantly 
with  him. 

"  Oh !  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you !" 
said  he  to  Louis.  "Well,  well,  we 
shall  not  meet  many  times  more,  .  .  . 
here  below,  I  mean,  but  we  shall 
meet  again  in  heaven  never  more  to 
separate." 

Louis  burst  into  tears. 

"  You  great  child !"  continued  he. 
"  If  it  were  not  for  my  sweet  Agnes 
there,  I  would  beg  you  to  congratu- 
late me :  I  am  going  home  to  God ! 
But  the  idea  of  leaving  that  dear 
soul,  who  has  made  me  so  happy, 
hangs  like  a  cloud  between  me  and 
heaven.  Oh !  you  will,  you  will 
watch  over  her  as  I  would  myself, 
will  you  not  ?" 

"  Yes ;  as  your  very  self,  I  solemn*- 
ly  promise  you,"  cried  Louis.  Then, 
falling  on  his  knees  beside  the  bed, 
he  said  :  "  My  friend,  assure  me  once 
more  that  you  forgive  me.  It  is  I 
who  have  killed  you  !" 

Victor  drew  him  towards  him,  and 
embraced  him.  Louis  then  begged 
my  forgiveness  also.  I  could  not 
answer  him,  but  I  held  out  my  hand, 
which  he  respectfully  kissed. 

"  One  favor  more,"  said  Louis : 
"  I  hope  you  will  not  leave  us  so 
soon  as  you  suppose,  but  it  is  better 
to  make  the  request  now,  as  I  can 
do  it  to-day  without  troubling  you : 
give  me  your  blessing  !" 

Victor  excused  himself,  but  Louis 
insisted  so  long  that  he  yielded. 
Victor  then  extended  his  hand  over 
his  friend's  head:  "O  my  God!" 
said  he,  "  I  am  only  a  sinner,  with 
no  right  to  bless  in  thy  name ;  but  I 
have  given  my  heart  to  thee,  and  I 
also  love  this  soul  to  whom  thou  has 
permitted  me  to  do  some  good. 
Watch  over  him !  .  .  .  Make 
him  happy  here  below,  or,  if  it  is  thy 
will  he  should  suffer,  grant  him  the 
necessary  courage  to  find  joy  in  sor- 
row itself." 


This  scene  was  deeply  affecting. 
For  some  time  we  remained  silent. 
Victor,  unwilling  to  leave  us  so  pain- 
fully impressed,  began  to  smile  and 
say  the  liveliest  things  he  could  im- 
agine. Addressing  Louis,  he  said  : 

"  How  are  your  love  affairs  ?  You 
cannot  imagine  how  I  long  for  your 
union  with  a  woman  so  calculated  to 
make  you  happy.  The  more  I  think 
of  it,  the  more  I  am  convinced  that 
Mile.  Smithson  is  the  very  person." 

Louis  replied  with  a  sigh.  He 
related  what  had  taken  pkce  at  the 
great  dinner,  and  the  wrong  impres- 
sion Mr.  Smithson  had  derived  from 
the  curfs  imprudence.  He  also 
told  us  of  Albert's  arrival,  and  gave 
a  brief  account  of  their  interview. 

"This  man's  unexpected  appear- 
ance has  caused  me  sincere  pain," 
he  said.  "  It  has  excited  a  thousand 
fears  only  too  well  grounded.  Is  it 
because  I  think  him  capable  of  de- 
stroying my  most  cherished  hopes  ? 
.  .  .  No ;  not  if  it  depends  merely 
on  him.  His  meaningless  face,  his 
affected  and  pretentious  manners, 
and  his  vacant  mind,  are  not  calcu- 
lated to  fascinate  Mile.  Eugenie. 
Her  nature  is  entirely  different  from 
his.  His  defects  must  shock  her. 
But  the  man,  from  what  I  am  told, 
has  the  luck  of  being  in  his  aunt's 
good  graces.  Who  knows  but  Mme. 
Smithson  herself  induced  him  to 
come,  with  the  positive  intention  of 
giving  him  her  daughter's  hand  in 
marriage  ?  .  .  ." 

"  It  is  possible,"  said  Victor,  "  but 
you  have  one  good  cause  for  hope 
in  spite  of  everything.  You  ac- 
knowledge yourself  that  such  a  man 
cannot  please  Mile.  Eugenie.  Now, 
she  is  a  woman  with  a  mind  of  her 
own,  and  her  parents  are  very  indul- 
gent to  her.  These  two  reasons  in- 
duce me  to  believe  she  will  never 
marry  him." 

"  She  is  different  from  most  wo- 


Madame  Agnes. 


men,'  replied  Louis.  "  Her  filial  de- 
votion may  lead  her  to  accept  the 
husband  her  parents  propose.  .  .  . 
Ah !  if  she  ioved  me,  I  should  not 
be  alarmed  on  that  score.  For  an 
instant,  I  thought  she  did;  but  the 
longer  I  study  things  calmly,  the 
more  inclined  I  am  to  believe  I  was 
lulled  by  a  sweet  illusion.  .  .  .  She 
does  not  love  me  yet.  It  is  possible 
she  might,  had  things  remained  as 
they  were.  Everything  will  take  a 
new  turn  now.  This  young  relative's 
arrival  will  absorb  her  attention,  and 
how  do  I  know  but  she  will  even 
end  by  taking  him  for  what  he  pre- 
tends to  be — a  grave,  thoughtful 
man  ?" 

"I  have  no  fears  on  that  point," 
said  Victor.  "  If  this  intruder  is  th» 
superficial  person  you  suppose — and 
he  is,  I  believe — he  will  not  deceive 
a  person  so  observing  as  Mile. 
Smithson." 

"  He  is  her  cousin.  .  .  .  Every 
one  in  the  house  treats  him  with 
great  affection.  .  .  .  Mile.  Eugenie 
is  young  and  without  experience,  .  .  . 
and  the  man  in  question  does  not 
lack  a  certain  ability.  .  .  .  He  has 
already  annoyed  me  in  more  than 
one  way." 

"  Is  it  possible !     How  ?" 

"  I  told  you  that  at  our  first  inter- 
view he  immediately  expressed  a 
wish  to  aid  me  in  the  work  I  had 
undertaken.  I  promised  to  intro- 
duce him  to  my  school  that  evening. 
He  was  so  urgent  that  he  excited 
my  suspicions  at  once.  My  fears 
were  only  too  well  founded,  as  you 
will  see.  I  had  scarcely  been  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  in  the  school- 
room, before  he  came  in  with  Mr. 
Smithson.  I  am  anxious  not  to  ex- 
aggerate anything;  above  all,  I  do 
not  wish  to  calumniate  him.  It  is, 
therefore,  with  all  sincerity  I  tell  you 
that  this  designing  man,  at  his  first 
visit,  so  arranged  everything  as  to 


take  the  precedence  of  me  before  my 
scholars.  With  his  arm  passed  fa- 
miliarly through  his  uncle's,  he  en- 
tered with  a  mere  salutation  of  con- 
descending patronage.  Then,  after 
going  to  the  door  with  Mr.  Smithson, 
who  had  business  elsewhere,  he  re- 
mained as  if  to  superintend  and  di- 
rect me,  as  the  master  of  the  house 
might  have  done,  had  he  wished  to 
assert  his  rights.  I  repeat  it :  this  fel- 
low only  came  there  to  make  the 
workmen  feel  that  he  was,  even  in 
my  night-school,  if  not  the  master, 
at  least  his  representative,  and  I  the 
humble  agent.  In  fact,  without  con- 
sulting me,  he  began  to  give  advice 
to  one  and  another,  making  a  great 
deal  of  noise,  and  meddling  with 
everything,  so  that,  thanks  to  him, 
nothing  was  done.  He  disturbed 
everybody,  and  was  of  no  assistance. 
"  Of  course,  the  idle  and  talkative, 
as  well  as  those  disposed  to  flattery, 
took  to  the  new-comer.  As  to  me, 
I  frankly  confess  he  had  a  singular 
effect  on  my  nerves.  However,  I  re- 
strained myself,  and  said  nothing  to 
him  that  evening.  The  next  morn- 
ing, he  called  on  me,  and  announced 
his  intention  of  beginning  a  series  of 
lessons  on  political  economy.  As 
you  know,  I  am  in  the  habit  of  read- 
ing aloud  every  evening  from  some 
good  book — a  historical  incident,  an 
anecdote,  or  a  moral  extract  calcu- 
lated to  interest  the  workmen.  To 
this  I  join  some  familiar  explanations 
and  reflections  of  a  moral  and  even 
religious  nature.  This  exercise,  as 
simple  as  it  is  beneficial  in  its  results, 
was  not  to  his  liking.  He  wished  to 
replace  it  advantageously,  as  he  said, 
by  instructions  apparently  learned, 
but  in  reality  useless  and  even  per- 
nicious. Nothing  is  worse  than  to 
waste  great  words  on  people  abso- 
lutely destitute  of  elementary  know- 
ledge. But  the  very  ignorance  of 
his  audience  attracted  Albert.  He 


Madame  Agnes. 


79 


thought  he  should  dazzle  them  with- 
out much  effort,  and  without  running 
the  risk  of  their  finding  out  how  little 
he  really  knows.  I  listened  very 
coldly  to  his  proposal.  When  he 
left,  he  gave  me  a  slight  glance  of 
spitefulness  which  was  ominous  of 
evil. 

"  That  night  the  young  man  did  not 
appear  in  the  school-room,  but  the 
following  evening  he  presented  him- 
self. This  time  he  made  so  much 
confusion  that  I  could  not  conceal 
my  annoyance.  He  perceived  it,  and 
left  the  room.  I  regretted  not  hav- 
ing, perhaps,  restrained  my  feelings 
sufficiently.  I  followed  him  into  the 
next  room.  He  received  me  with 
insolent  haughtiness,  and  took  my 
explanations  unkindly.  When  I  had 
finished,  he  thus  addressed  me : 

" '  Monsieur,  there  are  some  who 
do  good  out  of  love  of  being  useful : 
to  such  I  belong.  There  are  others 
who  do  it  from  motives  of  self-love 
and  interest :  you  may  know  of  some. 
.  .  .  You  have  instituted  this  school ; 
you  direct  it  in  your  own  way ;  you 
wish  to  be  the  sole  master.  What 
your  reason  is  for  all  this  I  do  not 
know,  but  I  can  certify  one  thing : 
you  wish  to  have  your  workmen  to 
yourself.  It  is  not  my  practice  to 
intrude  anywhere,  even  when  I  have 
a  perfect  right.  Consequently  I 
withdraw.' 

"  I  stopped  him  to  ask  what  motive 
of  interest  I  could  have. 

"  '  O  monsieur  !'  said  he,  '  the 
name  of  a  philanthropist  is  not  to  be 
despised.  It  leads  to  many  things. 
You  know  better  than  I  what  use  you 
wish  to  make  of  it;  it  is  not  for  me  to 
tell  you.  It  remains  to  be  seen  if 
you  succeed.' 

"  He  evidently  wished  to  insinuate 
that  I  had  taken  this  indirect  way 
of  gaining  the  esteem  of  the  Smith- 
son  family,  and  perhaps  Eugenie's 
affections.  I  felt  my  anger  rise.  I 


was  about  to  reply  in  a  way  I  should 
have  regretted,  but  he  prevented  it 
by  going  out  without  giving  me  an 
opportunity. 

"  At  first,  I  congratulated  myself  on 
my  victory.  I  am  ashamed  to  say 
that  my  pride,  which  I  thought  I 
had  conquered,  again  reappeared  in 
my  heart.  «  He  is  afraid  of  me !'  I 
said  to  myself.  '  He  feels  my  supe- 
riority, and  has  gone  away  through 
mortification.'  Subsequent  reflec- 
tion convinced  me  of  my  mistake. 
Albert,  in  withdrawing,  was  not  van- 
quished, but  really  the  conqueror. 
He  had  successfully  achieved  his 
perfidious  design.  He  was  tired  of 
the  school,  and  felt  he  should  soon 
cut  a  sorry  figure  in  it.  He  sought 
the  means  of  getting  out  of  it,  which 
I  unwittingly  furnished  him,  so  that 
his  very  retreat  could  be  used  as  a 
plea  against  me.  All  my  subsequent 
observations  have  confirmed  my  sus- 
picions. I  have  not  met  him  since, 
but  I  can  see  he  has  been  secretly 
plotting  against  me.  Mr.  Smithson 
is  colder  than  ever  towards  me.  As 
to  Mile.  Eugenie,  I  have  met  her 
only  once,  walking  with  Albert.  She 
saw  me,  and  might  have  spoken,  but 
pretended  not  to  observe  me.  .  .  .  Ah ! 
my  dear  friend,  I  am,  I  confess, 
down-hearted.  For  days,  I  have  seen 
that  my  course  and  my  principles 
excite  Mr.  Smithson's  suspicions,  but 
I  had  some  reason  to  believe  I  was 
no  longer  indifferent  to  his  daughter. 
Now  she  herself  has  turned,  or  rath- 
er, has  been  turned,  against  me.  In 
a  month,  she  will  no  longer  be  able 
to  endure  me.  .  .  .  What  shall  I 
do?" 

"  Keep  straight  on  :  continue  the 
work  you  have  begun.  If  an  oppor- 
tunity occurs  for  explanation  either 
with  the  father  or  daughter,  convince 
them  that  you  are  an  honest  man." 

Our  poor  friend  was  very  gloomy 
when  he  left  us.  We  participated 


8o 


Madame  Agnes. 


in  his  sadness,  for  we  did  not  doubt 
but  this  cousin,  who  had  come  so 
inopportunely,  was  slyly  doing  him 
some  ill-turn.  We  were  not  wrong 
in  thinking  so.  I  will  relate  what 
had  taken  place. 

As  Louis  rightly  conjectured,  Al- 
bert had  willingly  allowed  himself 
to  be  excluded  from  the  school.  He 
immediately  presented  himself  in  the 
salon  with  an  air  of  discouragement, 
but  triumphing  in  the  bottom  of  his 
heart. 

"You  have  returned  early  this 
evening,"  said  Eugenie.  "  Are  you 
tired  of  the  school  already  ?" 

"  I  am  not  tired  of  it,  but  they  can 
no  longer  endure  me  there." 

"  Have  you  made  yourself  insup- 
portable ?"  asked  Eugenie.  She 
really  did  not  love  her  cousin,  and 
under  the  appearance  of.  teasing  him, 
as  is  the  way  with  young  people,  she 
told  him  some  pretty  plain  truths  as 
often  as  she  could.  Mr.  Smithson 
was  reading  a  newspaper.  Hearing 
what  Eugenie  and  Albert  said,  he 
looked  up,  and  said  to  his  nephew,  in 
his'usual  grave  tone : 

"  What  has  happened  ?" 

"  I  have  been  dismissed  from  the 
school." 

"  Impossible  !"  said  Eug6me. 

Albert  was  astonished  at  the  per- 
sistency with  which  his  cousin  de- 
fended Louis.  He  felt  his  hatred 
redouble  against  the  engineer. 

'•'  You  may  well  think  it  impossi- 
ble," said  he,  in  an  insinuating  tone. 
.  .  .  "  Really,  if  this  gentleman 
has  a  right  to  figure  in  the  school  he 
has  founded  with  my  uncle's  aid,  I, 
his  nephew,  and  almost  a  child  of  the 
house,  have  a  right  to  take  a  part  in 
it  also.  But  such  is  not  the  opinion 
of  our  imperious  co-laborer.  There 
is  a  certain  routine  about  his  instruc- 
tions that  I  mildly  criticised.  For 
example,  he  tries,  however  awkward 
it  may  be,  to  give  a  religious  turn  to 


everything,  which  I,  though  a  great 
friend  to  religion,  find  ridiculous." 

In  this  underhand  way,  Albert 
skilfully  aroused  his  uncle's  anger 
and  distrust.  Mr.  Smithson  mur- 
mured to  himself,  with  that  voice  of 
the  soul  inaudible  to  others :  "  I 
thought  so :  he  is  fanatical  and  am- 
bitious. My  nephew,  fool  as  he  is, 
has  found  it  out,  and  has  unmasked 
him  !  That  is  why  the  other  has  got 
rid  of  him/' 

Albert  partly  guessed  what  was 
passing  in  his  uncle's  mind,  and  saw 
he  had  made  a  good  hit.  He  ended 
his  recriminations  in  these  terms : 
"  The  little  advice  of  a  humble  na- 
ture I  gave  him ;  my  course  so  differ- 
ent from  his,  and,  I  may  say  without 
vanity,  better.  .  .  ." 

Here  Eugenie  burst  into  a  loud 
laugh. 

"  Eugenie,"  said  Mr.  Smithson 
gravely,  "  what  your  c®usin  is  saying 
merits  attention.  You  are  far  too 
giddy  this  evening." 

Eugenie  never  resisted  her  father, 
except  in  a  case  of  absolute  necessi- 
ty ;  she  became  silent,  and  appeared 
to  take  no  further  interest  in  the  con- 
versation. 

"  At  last,"  said  Albert,  "  I  clearly 
saw  this  gentleman  wished  to  have 
his  school  to  himself,  so  much  at 
home  does  he  feel  even  there.  .  .  . 
He  rudely  .  .  .  made  me  feel  that 
.  .  .  I  was  in  the  way.  I  with- 
drew, but  not  without  letting  him 
know,  in  my  turn,  that  I  regarded 
his  course  as  it  merited." 

"  There  was  no  quarrel  between 
you  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Smithson,  who 
had  a  horror  of  contention. 

"  No,  uncle." 

Mme.  Smithson  thereupon  pro- 
ceeded to  console  her  nephew  as 
well  as  she  could.  The  remainder 
of  the  evening  passed  in  an  uncom- 
fortable manner.  Each  of  the  four 
persons  in  the  room  was  absorbed  in 


Madame  Agnes. 


81 


serious  reflection  without  wishing  it 
to  be  obvious,  and  all  felt  that  they 
would  not  like  to  communicate  what 
was  passing  in  their  hearts.  This 
caused  a  want  of  ease  which  became 
more  and  more  awkward  as  it  grew 
more  perceptible  in  spite  of  the  efforts 
each  made  to  conceal  it.  The  two 
who  were  the  most  troubled,  however, 
were  Mme.  Smithson  and  Albert. 
The  latter  no  longer  doubted  Eu- 
g^nie's  love  for  the  engineer.  He 
ought  to  have  seen  that,  as  usual,  she 
merely  took  the  side  of  the  oppressed. 


Js  to  Mr.  Smithson,  it  was  quite 
rent.  A  few  days  previous,  he 
merely  suspected  Louis  might  be 
fanatical  and  ambitious,  and  linked 
with  the  curd  to  undermine  his  au- 
thority among  the  workmen.  Now 
he  began  to  be  sure  of  it.  He 
even  went  so  far  as  to  suspect  his 
daughter  of  favoring  Louis'  de- 
signs. This  Catholic  league,  estab- 
lished in  his  own  house  and  at  his 
own  hearth,  filled  him  with  a  terror 
and  anger  as  lively  as  they  were 
ridiculous. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 


CALUMNY. 


The  next  morning,  before  any  one 
was  up,  Albert  went  in  search  of 
Fanny,  with  whom  he  had  the  fol- 
lowing conversation : 

"  You  have  caused  me  a  useless 
journey,"  said  he.  "  Eugenie  loves 
the  engineer." 

"  I  do  not  believe  it,"  replied  the 
servant,  either  because  she  did  not, 
or  because  she  wished  to  console 
Albert. 

"  It  is  of  no  use  to  contradict  me. 
I  have  kept  my  eyes  open,  and  drawn 
my  own  conclusions.  I  have  a  bet- 
ter opportunity  than  you  for  obser- 
vation. I  tell  you  she  loves  him! 
If  you  cannot  devise  some  scheme 
for  driving  him  from  her  mind,  I 
shall  set  out  to-morrow  for  the  capi- 
tal." 

"Here  is  what  I  call  hitting  the 
nail  on  the  head.  ...  I  thought  of 
something  yesterday  exactly  to  the 
point." 

It  was  Albert's  turn  to  be  incredu- 
lous. He  shrugged  his  shoulders  as 
a  sign  of  doubt. 

"I  tell  you  I  can  satisfy  your 
demand,"  repeated  Fanny  slowly. 
"  Listen  !  In  a  manufactory,  every- 
thing is  talked  about.  The  engineer 
has  for  some  time  frequented  a  house 


apparently  through  charity,  but  it  is 
my  opinion  another  motive  takes 
him  there.  There  is  a  young  girl  in 
the  house — the  prettiest,  handsomest 
girl  to  be  seen,  they  say,  for  ten 
leagues  around.  Besides,  she  is 
well  behaved,  intelligent,  and  even 
pious;  only,  she  is  pitifully  poor." 

"  Tell  me  how  he  became  acquaint- 
ed with  the  family." 

"The  father  is  a  drunkard;  the 
mother  an  idle,  malicious  creature 
who  is  employed  here.  The  engi- 
neer looks  after  her.  This  woman 
was  probably  the  cause  of  his  going 
to  the  house.  They  are  extremely 
destitute." 

"  And  the  girl :  what  does  she 
do?" 

"  She  has  been  very  well  brought 
up  at  an  aunt's  in  town.  The  aunt 
died  recently,  and  so  suddenly  that 
she  was  unable  to  make  her  will,  as 
she  intended,  in  favor  of  her  niece. 
The  latter  has  therefore  returned 
home,  to  find  nothing  but  wretched- 
ness. I  must  confess,  however,  that 
she  has  behaved  admirably.  .  .  .. 
All  these  details  are  correct,  I  assure 
you.  .  .  .  What  is  no  less  true,. 
Mile.  Eugenie  knows  alt  the  poor 
families  that  the  engineer  visits  except 


83 


Madame  Agnes. 


this  one.  It  is  my  conviction  that 
he  loves  this  girl,  and  intends  marry- 
ing her  some  day.  .  .  .  There  is  no 
need  of  makin-g  people  out  worse 
than  they  are.  There  are  some  good 
things  in  this  M.  Louis.  All  his 
family  are  very  wealthy.  He  will 
not  be  poor  long,  and  is  at  liberty  to 
marry  a  woman  who  has  nothing,  if 
he  pleases." 

"  Well,"  said  Albert,  "  I  will  re- 
flect on  what  you  have  told  me. 
It  seems  to  me,  with  this  information, 
I  can  greatly  modify  my  fair  cousin's 
feelings  towards  her  protege." 

Before  another  hour,  Albert  had 
gathered  full  particulars  with  regard 
to  the  subject,  and  matured  his  plans. 
That  very  afternoon,  he  asked  Euge- 
nie to  allow  him  to  accompany  her 
in  her  rounds  among  the  poor. 

"  Willingly,"  said  she.  "  I  have  not 
been  to  see  them  for  some  time.  I  was 
just  thinking  I  ought  to  go  to-day." 

They  set  out  together.  The  day 
was  delightful.  Eugenie,  lively  and 
witty  as  usual,  took  most  of  the  con- 
versation upon  herself.  Albert  had 
on  a  dignified  air  of  offence  which 
he  wished  his  cousin  to  perceive; 
but  she  did  not  notice  it,  or  pretend- 
ed not.  Twenty  times  he  was  on 
the  point  of  alluding  to  what  had 
taken  place  the  evening  before,  and 
as  often  refrained.  Conceited  as  he 
was,  Albert  could  not  help  it — he 
was  not  at  his  ease  in  Eugenie's  so- 
ciety. Her  unvarying  frankness,  her 
intelligence,  and  the  vivacity  that 
never  forsook  her,  all  these  rare 
qualities  rendered  him  continually 
diffident  in  her  presence. 

At  some  distance  from  the  manu- 
factory, the  road  divided.  One  part 
turned  towards  the  highway  that  led 
to  the  village ;  the  other  followed  a 
gentle  declivity  to  the  river  half  hid- 
den among  the  willows,  rushes,  and 
flowers  that  make  that  part  of  the 
bank  so  delightful. 


"  What  a  charming  view !"  said 
Albert.  "  Let  us  go  down  this  way 
a  short  distance.  We  can  afterwards 
return  to  the  highway." 

Eugenie  allowed  herself  to  be 
guided  by  his  wish.  When  within  a 
hundred  steps  from  the  shore,  they 
came  to  a  hut  by  the  wayside,  be- 
tween two  large  trees,  picturesque 
in  appearance,  but  indicative  of  pov- 
erty. It  looked  like  a  forsaken  nest 
in  a  thicket. 

Albert  had  made  particular  inquir- 
ies, and  knew  the  hut  was  inhabited 
by  the  Vinceneau  family — the  one,  it 
will  be  recollected,  that  Louis  took 
charge  of  unknown  to  Eugenie. 

"  Are  there  not  some  of  your  poor 
people  here  whom  you  ought  to 
visit  ?"  asked  Albert,  in  the  most  in- 
nocent manner. 

"  No ;  I  have  no  idea  who  lives 
in  this  cottage." 

"I  saw  M.  Louis  coming  out  of 
it  the  other  day." 

"  He  probably  came  here  on  bu- 
siness. I  know  all  the  families  he 
visits;  none  of  them  lives  here." 

While  thus  talking,  Albert  ap- 
proached the  hut,  and,  before  Eu- 
genie could  prevent  him,  entered. 
She  followed. 

Mere  Vinceneau  was  at  home  that 
day,  in  one  of  her  fits  of  idleness  and 
ill-humor.  She  at  once  recognized 
Eugenie,  whom  she  did  not  like. 
She  had,  as  I  have  already  remark- 
ed, a  general  antipathy  against  the 
rich. 

"  What  have  you  come  here  for  ?" 
said  she. 

"We  do  not  wish  to  disturb  you 
in  the  least,"  said  Eugenie,  whose 
curiosity  was  now  roused.  "  My 
cousin  and  I  merely  wish  to  rest  our- 
selves. Perhaps  you  could  give  us 
some  milk." 

"  I  have  none." 

Mere  Vinceneau  was  a  tall,  spare 
woman,  with  a  forbidding  counte- 


Madame  Agnes. 


nance,  and  covered  with  rags.  Had 
it  not  been  for  her  crabbed  face,  she 
would  certainly  have  excited  com- 
passion. However,  Eugenie's  sym- 
pathies were  awakened  at  the  sight 
of  her  wretched  condition. 

"  You  seem  very  destitute,  my 
good  woman,"  said  she.  "  Can  I 
be  of  any  service  to  you  ?" 

La  Vinceneavf  softened  a  little  at 
this  gracious  offer.  "Thank  you," 
she  said.  "  It  is  true  we  are  badly 
off,  while  some  people  have  too 
much.  .  .  .  Nevertheless,  I  ought  not 
to  complain.  We  have  one  friend. 
.  .  .  You  know  him  well — M.  Louis, 
the  engineer  of  your  mill.  What  a 
kind  heart  he  has !  There  is  one 
who  loves  the  poor!  If  the  rich 
only  resembled  him !  .  .  ." 

"  Do  you  live  here  alone  ?" 

"  No ;  I  have  a  husband  employed 
at  the  tile-works,  and  a  daughter 
who  goes  out  as  a  seamstress  in  the 
village.  She  is  coming  now." 

A  slight  cloud  came  over  Euge- 
nie's face.  It  became  still  darker 
when  Madeleine  Vinceneau  entered. 
Madeleine  was  not  merely  beautiful : 
she  was  dazzling.  Poorly  but  neat- 
ly clad,  she  came  forward  with  a 
dignity  and  grace  that  inspired  as- 
tonishment as  well  as  respect.  Her 
large  black  eyes,  her  pale,  refined 
face,  her  smiling  lips,  and  her  whole 
appearance,  had  an  air  of  aristocratic 
distinction. 

"  What  a  lovely  creature !"  was 
Eugenie's  first  thought.  Then  an- 
other presented  itself:  "  Perhaps 
Louis  loves  her."  She  shuddered. 
A  feeling  of  displeasure  and  sadness 
came  over  her :  "  I  must  be  in  love 
with  him  myself  without  being  aware 
of  it,  to  be  so  jealous,"  she  said  to 
herself.  This  doubt  was  natural. 
Eugenie  determined  to  solve  it. 


Such  is  our  nature.  We  can  never 
see  so  clearly  what  is  passing  in  the 
depths  of  our  hearts  as  in  a  tempest. 

Eugenie  began  to  question  the 
girl  discreetly.  She  wished  to  ascer- 
tain if  her  nature  was  as  angelic  as 
her  exterior.  She  was  soon  satis- 
fied on  this  point.  Madeleine  was 
innocence  itself,  and  as  good  as  she 
was  innocent.  She  confirmed  all 
her  mother  had  said,  and  in  her 
turn  praised  Louis  with  an  ingenu- 
ousness that  assured  Eugenie  she  did 
not  love  him.  "  But  he — is  he  as 
indifferent  to  her  ?  .  .  ."  was  Eu- 
genie's thought  as  she  left  the  house. 
She  could  not  get  rid  of  the  painful 
suspicion,  consequently  she  was  in 
rather  a  gloomy  mood.  Albert  no- 
ticed it,  but  refrained  from  saying 
anything.  One  unguarded  word 
would  have  counteracted  the  happy 
effect  of  his  perfidious  scheme.  But 
he  was  triumphant  when  he  returned 
to  his  room.  "I  have  dealt  my 
rival  a  severe  blow,"  said  he  to  him- 
self—" a  blow  he  can  hardly  recover 
from ;  for  he  will  not  suspect  its 
source,  and  Eugenie  will  never  men- 
tion it  to  him.  Even  if  she  wished 
to,  how  could  they  have  any  expla- 
nation ?  They  never  meet  except  in 
the  presence  of  others.  Before  such 
an  explanation  takes  place,  I  must 
find  other  means  of  completing  his 
ruin.  ...  I  have  begun  well,  and 
must  bring  things  to  a  crisis.  .  .  ." 

All  this  occurred  the  day  before 
Louis  came  to  see  us.  Mere  Vince- 
neau told  him  of  the  visit  a  short 
time  after.  He  suspected  there  was 
some  scheme  of  Albert's  at  the  bot- 
tom of  it,  and  dwelt  on  the  means  he 
should  use  to  defeat  his  calculations. 
Meanwhile,  his  enemy  was  contriv- 
ing a  new  plot  destined  to  cause  him 
still  greater  embarrassment. 


Madame  Agnes, 


CHAPTER  xxn. 


THE    ENEMY    ON    EITHER    HAND. 


WHAT  I  have  just  related  took 
place  in  the  month  of  August.  I 
was  at  that  time  extremely  anxious 
about  Victor,  but  an  unexpected 
improvement  took  place  in  his  condi- 
tion after  Louis'  visit.  Alas !  he  was 
never  to  rally  again. 

Louis  sent  every  morning  for  some 
time  to  know  how  his  sick  friend 
was,  but  he  only  came  to  see  us 
once,  and  then  merely  for  a  few 

minutes.  He  only  left  St.  M 

with  regret.  He  seemed  to  feel  that, 
in  absenting  himself,  he  left  the  field 
clear  to  his  bold  rival,  as  it  was  now 
evident  he  was,  and  at  a  time  when 
an  attack  was  threatened  against 
what  he  cherished  the  most — the 
good  work  he  had  begun,  and  Eu- 
g6nie's  affection.  He  did  not,  there- 
fore, inform  us  at  that  time  of  all  I 
have  just  related.  On  the  contrary, 
we  were  left  in  a  state  of  painful 
incertitude.  But  I  had  every  detail 
at  a  later  day,  even  the  very  thoughts 
of  both  parties,  and  from  their  own 
lips. 

However,  Albert  was  not  fitted  to 
play  the  part  of  a  man  of  gravity  or 
that  of  a  hypocrite  for  a  long  time. 
For  that,  more  perseverance  and 
ability  than«he  had  were  required.  A 
frivolous  man  like  him  may,  by  care- 
ful watch  over  himself,  assume  an 
appearance  of  thoughtfulness,  but  he 
will  soon  show  himself  in  his  true 
colors  through  weariness,  or  at  an 
unguarded  moment.  He  had  hardly 
been  in  the  house  a  fortnight  before 
he  unconsciously  showed  what  he 
was  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart.  He 
rose  at  a  late  hour,  he  resumed  his 


habit  of  careful  attention  to  his  toilet, 
he  lounged  about  f|pm  morning  till 
night,  conversing  only  of  trivial 
things  or  discussing  points  he  was 
ignorant  of,  and  read  romances  of  a 
doubtful  character,  which,  so  far  from 
hiding,  he  left  about  in  his  room. 
Eugenie  kept  an  eye  open  to  all 
these  things.  She  watched  her  cou- 
sin with  the  natural  persistency  she 
inherited  from  her  father ;  she  drew 
her  own  conclusions,  and  ended  by 
treating  him  just  as  she  used  to  do, 
like  a  spoiled  child  she  loved  because 
he  was  a  relative,  but  would  not, 
on  any  account,  have  for  a  husband. 
Albert  tried  now  and  then  to  resume 
his  gravity ;  he  went  to  church,  and 
discussed  the  loftiest  themes.  Vain 
efforts  !  His  uncle  and  cousin  knew 
what  to  think  of  it  all.  Arbert  per- 
ceived it,  and  was  inwardly  furious. 

Mme.  Smithson  alone  manifested 
an  ever-increasing  fondness  for  him. 
Her  affection  for  his  mother  as  well 
as  himself,  and  her  acknowledged 
but  constant  wish  for  Mr.  Smithson's 
property  to  come  into  the  possession 
of  her  own  family  by  the  marriage 
of  the  two  cousins,  inclined  her  to- 
wards her  nephew.  But  of  what 
account  was  Mme.  Smithson  in  the 
house  ?  Very  little.  Albert  was  un- 
der no  illusion  on  this  point,  and 
therefore  had  never  attached  much 
importance  to  his  aunt's  support. 
For  two  or  three  days  he  exulted 
over  the  stratagem  he  had  formed  for 
awakening  unfavorable  sentiments 
in  his  cousin's  heart  toward  the  en- 
gineer. But  Eugenie's  suspicions 
could  not  last  long  without  her  seek 


Madame  Agnes. 


iag  an  explanation.  Then  all  would 
be  lost,  for  Albert  felt  that  Louis  did 
not  love  Madeleine.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  Eugenie  was  not  in  love  with 
Louis,  she  would  keep  her  conjec- 
tures to  herself,  and  merely  with- 
draw her  favor  from  him. 

Albert's  affairs,  therefore,  had  not 
in  any  respect  taken  the  turn  he 
hoped  in  the  beginning.  "  What 
can  be  done  ?  What  can  be  done  ?" 
he  said  to  himself.  "  I  must  devise 
some  way  of  getting  rid  of  this  fellow 
who  is  disturbing  my  uncle  and  Eu- 
genie's peace  of  mind  so  much. 
Things  must  b«e  brought  to  a  crisis. 
If  Louis  were  only  dismissed,  my 
cousin  in  her  despair  would  accept 
me  as  her  husband.  My  uncle  would 
manifest  no  opposition  out  of  regard 
for  his  wife,  and  because,  after  all,  I 
should  not  be  a  troublesome  son-in- 
law.  At  aH  events,  I  should  have 
the  satisfaction  of  routing  a  creature 
I  detest.  Whether  Eugenie  loves 
him  or  not,  I  can  never,  no,  never 
suffer  this  artful  man  to  marry  her. 
If  my  coming  only,  serves  to  drive 
him  away,  I  shall  be  glad  I  came." 

Such  calculations  were  extremely 
base  and  dishonorable,  but  it  must 
be  remembered  that  Albert  was  de- 
void of  piety,  he  coveted  his  cousin's 
dowry,  and  his  antipathy  to  Louis 
became  stronger  every  day.  People 
destitute  of  moral  principle  and  re- 
ligious faith  hate  those  who  possess 
the  good  qualities  they  lack  them- 
selves. Albert  had  tried  in  vain  to 
blind  himself  with  regard  to  Louis; 
but  the  more  he  studied  him,  the 
more  clearly  he  saw  he  was  incon- 
testably  a  man  of  great  depth,  sin- 
cere piety,  and  uncommon  energy. 
At  first  he  doubted  his  worth,  but  he 
could  question  it  no  longer. 

Eugenie  during  this  time  was 
extremely  sad  and  preoccupied, 
though  no  one  would  have  suspect- 
ed what  was  passing  in  the  depths 


of  her  soul.  The  poor  girl  could 
no  longer  conceal  it  from  herself: 
she  loved  Louis.  But  she  was  still 
uncertain  as  to  his  love  for  her. 
She  even  asked  herself — and  this 
was  an  additional  torture — if  he  was 
worthy  of  the  affection  she  bore 
him.  You  will  not  be  astonished 
if  I  add  that,  romantic  as  Eugenie 
was,  she  was  a  woman  to  be  driven 
in  such  a  conjuncture  to  the  very 
step  Albert  was  aiming  at.  Only 
one  thing  was  wanting  to  effect  this 
— the  necessity  of  withdrawing  her 
esteem  from  Louis.  In  a  noble 
nature  like  hers,  it  would  have 
quenched  her  love  and  broken  her 
very  heart  to  despise  the  object  of 
her  affections. 

Affairs  were  in  this  condition 
when  a  new  incident  came  to  the 
aid  of  Albert's  schemes.  Mr.  Smith- 
son,  it  will  be  well  to  recall,  was 
not  originally  a  manufacturer  of 
paper.  A  dishonest  broker,  or  one 
who  lacked  shrewdness,  led  him 
into  a  succession  of  unfortunate 
speculations.  Repeated  losses  were 
the  result.  Mr.  Smithson  perceived 
his  property  was  diminishing  in  an 
alarming  manner.  He  at  once  set- 
tled up  his  affairs,  and,  by  the  ad- 
vice of  Louis'  father,  bought  the 

mill  at  St.  M ,  the  proprietor 

of  which  had  just  died.  This  was 
in  every  respect  an  advantageous 
investment :  First,  it  withdrew  him 
from  the  arena  of  stock  speculations, 
where  fortune,  conscience,  and  ho- 
nor are  daily  risked ;  in  the  next 
place,  the  mill  he  purchased  brought 
in  a  fine  income.  But  it  was  no 
small  affair  to  conduct  such  an  en- 
terprise, employing  as  it  did  five  or 
six  hundred  workmen. 

Mr.  Smithson's  predecessor,  a 
man  perfectly  familiar  with  the 
business,  directed  the  establishment 
himself.  Everything  went  on  pros- 
perously, and  Mr.  Smithson  wished 


86 


Madame  Agnes. 


to  imitate  him.  In  a  few  months, 
he  saw  he  was  going  wrong.  The 
workmen  were  indolent,  the  machi- 
nery deteriorated,  everything  was 
going  to  ruin.  It  is  not  sufficient  to 
be  methodical;  intelligent,  and  ener- 
getic, in  order  to  conduct  a  manu- 
facturing concern  ;  a  man  must  have 
a  special  knowledge  of  mechanics 
and  a  faculty  of  adaptation  which 
Mr.  Smithson  did  not  possess.  He 
became  conscious  of  this,  and  resolv- 
ed to  obtain  a  book-keeper  of  probi- 
ty and  intelligence  to  keep  his  ac- 
counts, and  an  engineer  equally  vers- 
ed in  his  business.  They  were  both 
soon  found,  but  the  book-keeper 
alone  proved  suitable.  The  engineer 
had  practical  knowledge  enough, 
but  was  deficient  in  energy.  The 
workmen  and  overseers  soon  per- 
ceived it,  and  profited  by  it  to  do 
less  and  less.  The  engineer  was 
discharged  and  Louis  chosen  to  fill 
his  place. 

From  the  time  of  Louis'  arrival, 
the  aspect  of  everything  changed. 
The  workmen  felt  they  now  had  a 
superintendent  to  deal  with  that  was 
inflexible  but  just.  The  overseers 
alone  were  inclined  to  resist  his  au- 
thority. They  were  sharply  repri- 
manded, and  the  most  mutinous 
discharged.  Mr.  Smithson,  warned 
by  his  previous  experience,  seconded 
Louis  with  all  the  weight  of  his 
authority.  He  gave  him  absolute 
control. of  the  manufactory  when  he 
was  absent,  and  never  failed  to 
come  to  his  support  whenever  Louis 
found  severe  measures  necessary. 

All  this  did  not  take  place,  it  may 
well  be  supposed,  without  exciting 
some  murmurs  and  secret  rancor. 
Among  the  foremost  of  those  most 
dissatisfied  with  this  necessary  rigor 
was  an  overseer  by  the  name  of  Du- 
rand,  who  came  to  the  mill  some 
months  before  Louis.  He  was  a 
man  of  about  forty  years  of  age,  of 


lofty  stature,  a  sombre  face  expres- 
sive of  energy,  and  grave  and  fluent 
of  speech.  He  came  provided  with 
the  best  recommendations,  but  it  was 
afterwards  learned  they  were  forged. 
This  man  succeeded  both  in  intimi- 
dating the  engineer  who  preceded 
Louis,  and  acquiring  his  favor. 
Half  through  fear,  and  half  weak- 
ness, he  allowed  Durand  to  assume 
an  authority  he  abused  in  many 
ways.  When  Louis  replaced  this 
weak  man  so  afraid  of  Durand,  there 
was  more  than  one  contest  between 
him  and  the  overseer.  Their  last 
altercation  had  been  very  violent. 
Durand  insulted  the  Engineer  before 
all  the  workmen,  and  in  so  bold  a 
manner  that  Mr.  Smithson,  inform- 
ed of  what  had  taken  place,  at  once 
discharged  him.  Rather  than  give 
up  his  situation,  Durand  submitted 
to  the  humiliation  of  begging  Louis' 
pardon.  Notwithstanding  this,  he 
was  merely  kept  on  sufferance, 
though  he  was  well  paid,  for  he  was 
clever  in  his  way,  and  in  one  sense  a 
model  overseer  :  no  one  kept  better 
discipline. 

Astonishing  as  it  may  seem,  when 
Louis  instituted  the  evening-school, 
Durand  was  the  first  to  offer  his  as- 
sistance, and  was  appointed  monitor. 
One  thing,  however,  tried  Louis  :  his 
monitor,  always  polite  and  respect- 
ful to  his  face,  was  in  the  habit  of 
whispering  behind  his  back,  as  if 
secretly  conniving  with  the  men. 
But  nothing  occurred  to  justify  his 
suspicions,  and  Louis  at  length  ceas- 
ed to  attach  any  importance  to  the 
overseer's  strange  ways.  When  the 
night-school  closed,  about  half-past 
eight,  Durand  went  away  a  little  be- 
fore Louis  to  finish  the  evening  at 
the  St.  M cafe,  which  was  great- 
ly frequented  by  the  inhabitants  of 
the  place.  There  he  gambled  and 
harangued  at  his  ease,  and  acquired 
the  reputation  of  being  the  ablest 


Madame  Agnes. 


talker  in  the  country  around.  As  to 
his  political  opinions,  they  were  not 
positively  known.  He  was  suspect- 
ed of  being  a  demagogue,  and  even 
an  ultra  one,  but  there  was  no  proof 
of  it.  He  was  less  secret  about  his 
religious  belief.  He  called  himself  a 
Protestant,  and  a  thorough  one. 

Meanwhile,  Albert  began  to  find 
the  life  he  was  leading  at  his  uncle's 
wearisome  and  monotonous.  The 
evenings  especially  seemed  inter- 
minable. Mr.  Smithson  read,  Mme. 
Smithson  was  absorbed  in  her  tapes- 
try, and  Eugenie  played  on  the 
piano.  Albert  did  not  know  what 
to  do  with  himself.  He  did  not 
dare  have  recourse  to  a  novel ;  con- 
versation with  his  aunt  was  not  very 
enlivening:  and,  if  he  addressed 
himself  to  Eugenie,  she  showed  so 
much  skill  in  embarrassing  him  on 
every  subject  that  he  avoided  the 
occasion  of  appearing  to  so  much 
disadvantage.  Besides,  Eugenie's 
superiority  irritated  him.  Had  it 
not  been  for  her  fortune,  which  he 
found  more  and  more  attractive, 
and  her  beauty,  to  which  he  could 
not  remain  insensible,  he  would  at 
once  have  given  up  all  thoughts  of 
marrying  her.  But  her  property  on 
the  one  hand,  and  her  beauty  on 
the  other,  deterred  him.  However, 
with  his  frivolous  mind,  he  soon 
found  it  intolerable  to  be  confined 
to  his  cousin's  society  every  evening, 
even  for  the  purpose  of  paying  court 
to  her.  One  night,  it  suddenly  oc- 
curred to  him  to  go  to  the  cafe,  and 
after  that  he  went  there  regularly 
after  dinner  to  pass  an  hour.  He 
was  welcomed  very  cordially,  espe- 
cially by  Durand,  who  at  once  made 
every  effort  to  win  his  favor.  The 
wily  overseer  was  so  profuse  in  re- 
spectful attentions  that  in  a  few  even- 
ings they  were  friends.  Durand,  with 
his  uncommon  penetration,  soon  dis- 
covered from  some  indiscreet  words 


Albert  dropped  what  was  troubling 
his  shallow  mind.  He  could  see  he 
was  desirous  of  marrying  his  cousin, 
and  so  suspicious  of  Louis  that  he 
detested  him  and  asked  for  nothing 
better  than  to  see  him  dismissed. 
Durand  at  once  resolved  to  gain  Al- 
bert's friendship  and  profit  by  it  to 
involve  Louis  in  some  inextricable 
embarrassment.  He  was  determin- 
ed to  have  his  revenge  at  whatever 
cost,  but  it  was  necessary  to  proceed 
with  caution.  He  began  by  sound- 
ing Albert  to  make  sure  of  his  anti- 
pathy to  Louis,  that  he  really  wished 
for  his  dismissal,  and  if  he  cared 
what  means  were  employed  provid- 
ed the  end  was  attained. 

Durand  gave  himself  no  rest  till 
he  was  sure  of  all  this — a  certitude 
he  acquired  the  day  when  Albert,  im- 
patient at  the  unfavorable  progress 
of  his  affairs,  resolved  to  bring  things 
to  a  sudden  crisis  by  having  Louis 
dismissed,  if  possible.  The  overseer 
waited  till  Albert  left  the  cafe,  and 
then  proposed  he  should  accompany 
him  to  the  manufactory,  where  he 
lodged.  x 

"  Willingly,  my  good  fellow,"  said 
Albert.  It  was  a  fine  evening  in 
the  month  of  September.  They  set 
off  together  by  the  road  that  ran 
along  the  river  half-hidden  among 
trees,  through  which  the  moon  dif- 
fused its  purest  radiance. 

"  We  do  not  see  you  any  more  at 
the  mill,"  said  Durand.  "  I  daresay 
I  could  guess  why  you  have  stopped 
visiting  the  school  .  .  .  Would  there 
be  any  indiscretion  in  telling  you  the 
reason  that  has  occurred  to  me  ?" 

"  Not  the  least  in  the  world." 

"  Well,  then,  if  I  am  not  mistaken, 
there  is  some  one  at  the  mill  not 
exactly  to  your  liking.  .  .  .  Yes, 
somebody  keeps  you  away.  ..." 

"  That  may  be." 

"  Ah  !  I  am  no  fool.  I  think  I 
have  found  out  the  cause  of  our  be- 


Madame  Agnes. 


ing  deprived  of  your  visits.  It  must 
have  been  something  serious.  See 
if  I  haven't  some  wit  left.  .  .  .  The 
person  you  dislike  is  M.  Louis,  is  it 
not  ?" 

"  You  are  right,  my  friend,"  re- 
plied Albert,  patting  Durand  on  the 
shoulder  in  a  familiar  manner. 

"  There  are  others  who  do  not 
like  him  any  better  than  you." 

"  Not  you  ?  You  are  his  assistant 
at  the  school,  and  seem  on  the  best 
of  terms  with  him." 

"  Seem  ?  Yes,  I  seem  ;  but  to  seem 
and  be  are  sometimes  very  different 
things.  Listen:  the  very  instant  I 
saw  you — excuse  my  frankness — you 
inspired  me  with  so  much  confidence 
that,  faith,  I  feel  inclined  to  tell  you 
all  that  is  on  my  mind.  It  would  do 
me  good." 

"  Do  not  be  afraid  of  my  betray- 
ing you,  mon  cher ;  speak  to  me  as  a 
friend." 

"  O  monsieur !  you  are  too  kind. 
W;ll,  since  you  allow  me,  I  tell 
you  plainly  I  do  not  like  that  man  ; 
no,  not  at  all." 

"  He  has  been  insolent  and  over- 
beading  towards  you,  I  know." 

"  If  that  were  all,  I  could  forgive 
him.  But  it  is  not  a  question  of 
myself.  I  dislike,  I  detest  him  for 
another  reason.  Whoever  likes  Mr. 
Smithson  cannot  like  the  engineer, 
as  I  can  convince  anybody  who 
wishes  it." 

"  Explain  yourself;  I  do  not  ex- 
actly understand  you." 

"  Well — but  swear  you  will  never 
repeat  what  I  am  going  to  say." 

"  I  give  you  my  word,  which  I 
never  break." 

"  Well,  then,  this  M.  Louis  is  a 
Tartuffe — a  Jesuit;  such  men  are 
dangerous.  Woe  to  the  houses  they 
enter !  He  has  wasted  all  his  prop- 
erty, we  know  how!  It  is  a  shame! 
.  .  .  Then  he  artfully  obtained  a 
plar.e  in  your  uncle's  mill,  where  he 


has  assumed  more  and  more  author- 
ity; he  tries  to  influence  the  minds 
of  the  workmen ;  he  ...  wishes  to 
marry  your  cousin.  .  .  .  Parbleu !  I 
may  as  well  say  aloud  what  every 
body  is  saying  in  secret." 

"  Do  they  say  that,  Durand  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  report.  But  his 
art  and  hypocrisy  are  in*  vain.  More 
than  one  of  us  understand  his  pro- 
jects. .  .  .  And  let  me  assure  you 
we  tremble  lest  he  succeed  !  There 
will  be  fine  doings  when  the  mill 
passes  into  the  hands  of  this  Jesuit, 
who  will  spend  all  of  Mr.  Smithson's 
property,  and  prepare  him  a  pitiful 
old  age.  Do  you  see  now  why  I 
cannot  endure  that  man  ?  Oh  !  if  I 
were  master  I  would  soon  set  him  a- 
flying.  .  .  .  But  I  am  not  the  master, 
...  it  is  he  who  is  likely  to  be.  If 
somebody  could  only  get  him  dis- 
missed !" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Albert,  in  a  con- 
ceited tone.  "  There  is  some  truth 
in  .what  you  say — a  great  deal,  in 
fact.  .  .  .  Since  I  have  been  here,  I 
have  watched  and  studied  his  move- 
ments, and  agree  with  you  that  it 
was  rather  an  unlucky  day  for  my 
uncle  when  he  admitted  this  intriguer 
into  his  house.  His  schemes  make 
me  anxious." 

"  Is  there  no  way  of  defeating 
them  ?" 

"  It  would  be  no  easy  matter." 

"  Come,  now !  As  if  you,  Mr. 
Smithson's  nephew;  you  who  have 
more  learning  than  all  of  us  put  to- 
gether— who  have  more  wit  than  I, 
though  I  am  no  fool — as  if  you  could 
not  send  him  adrift  if  you  wished  to  ! 
.  .  .  You  could  never  make  me  be- 
lieve that." 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  I  certainly 
ask  for  nothing  better  than  to  get 
him  into. some  difficulty;  but  how? 
He  performs  his  duties  with  exaspe- 
rating fidelity." 

"Oh!  it  is  not  on  that  score  you 


Madame  Agnes. 


89 


must  attack  him;  he  is  too  cunning 
to  be  at  fault  there." 

"  Well,  if  he  is  not  at  fault,  do  you 
wish  me  to  make  him  out  so  ?" 

"  Precisely.  That  is  what  must  be 
done.  See  here,  M.  Albert,  as  you 
know  of  no  way,  I  will  tell  you  an 
idea  that  has  come  into  my  head ;  for 
I  have  been  a  long  time  contriving 
some  means  of  driving  that  man 
away.  But  I  must  first  warn  you 
not  to  take  my  plan  for  more  than  it 
is  worth.  If  it  is  not  a  good  one,  we 
will  try  to  discover  a  better  one." 

"  Let  us  hear  it." 

"  We  have  an  Englishman  at  the 
mill  who  tells  me  he  does  not  intend 
to  remain.  This  man  has  been  to 
the  evening-school  several  times.  M. 
Louis  has  lent  him  religious  books. 
....  Can't  you  guess  what  I  am 
at?" 

"  No." 

"  Well,  this  is  my  plan.  The  man 
I  refer  to  and  I  are  linked  together. 
It  would  be  a  long  story  to  tell  how 
and  why.  If  I  should  go  to  him — 
to-morrow,  for  instance — and  say: 
'  Adams,  I  know  you  intend  leaving 

St.  M -.  Will  you  do  your  friend 

a  favor  before  you  go  ?  Rid  me  of 
that  engineer.  I  do  not  mean  for 
you  to  kill  him  or  do  him  any  harm  : 
we  are  neither  of  us  murderers.  I 
simply  propose  you  should  play  him 
some  trick,  as  they  call  it.  You  are 
on  good  terms  with  him :  he  lends 
you  books.  Go  and  tell  him  you 
have  come  to  consult  him  about 
some  doubts  on  the  subject  of  reli- 
gion. Beg  him  to  enlighten  you. 
Ask  for  some  controversial  works, 
and  cautiously  insinuate  the  possi- 
bility of  abjuring  your  religion.  You 
will  naturally  be  open  in  your  pro- 
jects- You  will  even  talk  of  them 
with  an  air  of  profound  conviction. 
This  will  cause  some  noise.  I  shall 
then  take  hold  of  it.  In  case  of  ne- 
cessity, I  shall  have  a  violent  dis- 


pute with  the  engineer,  which  of 
course  will  oblige  Mr.  Smithson  to 
interfere.'  I  know  he  is  not  disposed 
to  jest  about  such  matters.  Once 
the  affair  is  brought  before  him,  the 
engineer  is  lost.  I  will  not  give  him 
a  week  to  remain  at  the  mill  after 
that.  .  .  .  Such  is  my  idea;  what 
do  you  think  of  it  ?" 

"  Durand,  you  are  a  genius. 
Your  plan  is  admirable.  The  mo- 
ment my  uncle  finds  the  engineer  is 
trying  to  propagate  his  religion,  he 
is  lost,  as  you  say.  You  must  put 
your  project  into  execution  without 
any  delay." 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  approve  of 
it,  not  only  because  it  flatters  my 
self-love,  but  because  it  makes  me 
more  hopeful  of  success.  I  should 
be  better  satisfied,  however,  if  you 
would  promise  to  help  us  in  case 
you  are  needed.  .  .  .  We  are  not 
sure  of  succeeding  in  our  plan.  The 
engineer  is  cunning,  and  Mr.  Smith- 
son's  way  of  acting  is  not  always 
easy  to  foresee.  And  if  we  should 
fail — if  I  get  into  difficulty  !  .  .  ." 

"  I  promise  to  stand  by  you. 
Rest  assured  I  shall  not  be  back- 
ward in  trying  my  utmost  to  influ- 
ence my  uncle  against  him.  This 
will  be  easy,  for  he  already  distrusts 
the  engineer.  Nevertheless,  admon- 
ish your  friend  to  be  extremely  cau- 
t:ous.  No  one  must  have  the  slight- 
est suspicion  of  the  scheme.  Suc- 
cess then  would  be  impossible." 

"Adams  does  not  lack  wit.  He 
will  know  how  to  manage.  But  one 
thing  alarms  me,  and  will  him.  If 
his  conversion  were  to  offend  Mr. 
Smithson  to  such  a  degree  as  to 
cause  his  dismissal  in  disgrace! 
Where  could  he  go  without  recom- 
mendations ?" 

"  Why,  how  simple  you  are  !  All 
this  can  be  turned  to  his  advantage. 
As  soon  as  he  sees  my  uncle  irritat- 
ed, he  must  ask  for  a  private  inter- 


Madame  Agnes. 


view,  consult  him  as  to  his  belief, 
and  pretend  to  yield  to  his  argu- 
ments. He  must  end  by  avowing 
his  determination  to  remain  a  Pro- 
testant, and  declaring  he  had  been  led 
away  by  the  engineer.  The  result  is 
evident." 

"  You  are  sharper  than  I.  I  did 
not  think  of  that.  Your  idea  makes 
everything  safe,  and  settles  the  mat- 
ter." 

"  And  when  shall  the  first  shot  be 
fired  ?" 

"  To-morrow." 

"  But  one  question  more.  ...  It 
would  be  vexatious  if  the  engineer 
refused  the  bait  and  sent  Adams 
a-walking." 

"  No  danger  of  that  The  engi- 
neer is  a  genuine  fanatic.  I  am  sure 
of  that,  and  I  have  had  an  opportu- 
nity of  judging." 

While  thus  conversing,  our  two 
conspirators  had  nearly  reached  the 
mill.  They  separated  without  being 
seen.  Albert  was  radiant.  As  he 
retired,  he  said  to  himself:  "  Why 
did  I  not  think  of  this  scheme  my- 
self? .  .  .  It  is  so  simple,  and 
carmot  fail!  A  saint  like  the  engi- 
neer will  risk  everything  to  gain  a 
soul.  .  .  .  And  yet,  if  he  should  be 
afraid,  as  Durand  said ;  if  he  is  only 
a  Catholic  outwardly !  .  .  .  That 
would  be  embarrassing !  Strange ! 
for  once,  I  hope  the  fellow  is  sin- 
cere!  .  .  ." 

The  following  morning,  Durand 
took  a  private  opportunity  of  giving 
his  associate  his  instructions,  and 
that  night  Adams  begged  Louis  to 
grant  him  an  interview  in  his  room 
after  school. 

The  interview  took  place.  Durand 
had  only  told  the  truth :  Adams  was 
an  artful  fellow — one  of  those  men 
who  conceal  uncommon  duplicity 
under  the  appearance  of  perfect  can- 
dor. He  had  been  Durand's  tool 
for  a  long  time.  The  latter  had 


rendered  him  more  than  one  service, 
and  employed  him  in  numerous 
fraudulent  transactions,  which  he 
generously  rewarded  him  for.  Du- 
rand lent  money  upon  pledge  to 
workmen  in  difficulty.  He  unlawful- 
ly appropriated  a  thousand  small  ob- 
jects in  the  manufactory,  and  had 
them  sold.  His  assistant  in  this  dis- 
honest traffic,  his  man  of  business,  as 
he  called  him,  was  Adams,  who  was 
well  paid,  as  may  be  supposed. 

The  Englishman,  cunning  as  he 
was,  had  some  difficulty  in  persuad 
ing  Louis  he  was  serious  in  his  in 
tention  of  abjuring  his  religion.  But 
he  dwelt  on  his  doubts  with  suck 
apparent  sincerity,  he  manifested  so 
strong  a  desire  to  be  rescued  from 
error,  if  he  was  in  error,  that  Louis 
immediately  proposed  he  should  con- 
sult the  curt.  Adams  pretended  the 
^//•/intimidated  him ;  he  was  more  at 
his  ease  with  Louis,  and  could  talk 
to  him  with  perfect  openness  of 
heart.  "  If  I  have  to  go  to  tha 
curj"  said  he,  "  well,  then,  I  shall 
defer  it.  I  do  not  wish  to  expose 
myself  to  observations  that  would 
not  fail  to  be  made.  After  all,  mon- 
sieur," he  added,  "  I  am  only  in 
doubt.  I  am  not  yet  convinced  of 
being  in  error.  When  I  see  clearly 
I  am,  oh  !  then  I  will  no  longer  con- 
ceal my  sentiments.  But  meanwhile, 
I  do  not  wish  everybody  to  know 
what  is  passing  in  my  soul." 

These  plausible  statements  ban- 
ished Louis'  suspicions.  He  receiv- 
ed the  young  man  in  his  room  seve- 
ral evenings  in  succession.  He  lent 
him  a  small  book,  easy  of  compre- 
hension, that  contained  a  thorough 
refutation  of  Protestantism.  Poor 
Louis !  he  behaved  with  genuine  he- 
roism on  this  occasion.  From  the 
first  he  foresaw  all  the  trouble  such 
an  affair  was  likely  to  cause  him. 
He  did  not  deceive  himself  as  to  the 
result  of  this  abjuration.  He  had  an 


Madame  Agnes. 


immediate  presentiment  of  Mr.  Smith- 
son's  anger,  and  the  difficult,  nay, 
intolerable  position  he  would  be  in 
if  this  conversion  took  place.  No 
matter,  he  would  brave  everything 
rather  than  neglect  his  duty  as  a 
Christian,  which  obliged  him  to 
point  out  the  true  religion  to  all  who 
sought  it. 

He  was  also  preoccupied  at  this 
time  by  the  remembrance  of  what 
had  taken  place  at  Vinceneau's,  and 
suffered  from  the  coolness  Eugenie 
manifested  towards  him.  He  saw 
he  was  kept  more  at  a  distance  than 
ever  by  Mr.  Smithson,  who  looked 
upon  him  as  a  dangerous  man. 
Louis'  situation,  it  must  be  confess- 
ed, was  distressing.  He  would  have 
given  much  to  have  at  least  one  con- 
soling word  from  the  lips  of  her 
whom  he  loved,  and  before  whom  he 
saw  he  had  been  calumniated.  This 
unhoped-for  happiness  was  at  last 
granted  him  under  peculiar  circum- 
stances. Louis  had  just  been  to 
see  the  Vinceneau  family,  which  was 
in  a  worse  plight  than  ever.  The 
father  had  taken  to  drink  with  fresh 
madness,  and  the  mother  had  a  fit 
of  indolence  that  kept  her  away  from 
the  mill.  Madeleine  alone  worked 
for  the  whole  family.  Louis  had 
been  there  to  reason  with  the  mother, 
who  gave  him  the  worst  possible  re- 
ception. He  tried  to  encourage  the 
daughter,  but  without  success.  Ma- 
deleine had  also,  to  some  degree,  the 
family  weakness — a  lack  of  energy 
of  character. 

Louis  had  come  away  unusually 
dejected.  On  his  way  back  to  the 
manufactory,  while  dwelling,  first  on 
these  unfortunate  people,  then  on 
Adams,  who  that  very  day  had  spok- 
en of  soon  abjuring-  his  religion, 
and  finally  on  Victor,  about  whom 
he  had  just  received  the  most  alarm- 
ing intelligence,  he  met  Eugenie  face 
to  face.  She  turned  pale  at  seeing 


him,  and  replied  to  his  greeting  with 
extreme  coldness  as  she  kept  on.  .  .  . 

Louis'  sadness  redoubled.  He 
took  a  sudden  resolution.  "  I  must 
justify  myself,"  he  said,  .  .  .  and, 
intimidated  as  he  was — the  man 
who  loves  with  a  pure  affection  is 
always  timid — he  stopped  and  turn- 
ed back. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  address- 
ing Eugenie,  "I  have  a  favor  to 
ask." 

"  What  is  it,  monsieur  ?" 

"Among  the  poor  families  I  am 
interested  in  is  one  I  have  never 
spoken  to  you  about." 

"You  are  under  no  obligation, 
monsieur,  to  inform  me  of  all  the 
families  you  visit." 

"  I  know  it,  mademoiselle ;  but,  as 
I  am  not  ashamed  of  any  of  the 
places  I  go  to,  I  have  no  interest  in 
concealing  them.  If  I  have  not 
heretofore  spoken  of  this  family,  it 
was  for  a  special  reason.  These 
people,  of  the  name  of  Vinceneau, 
were  recommended  to  me  by  old 
Fran9oise.  She  took  the  liveliest 
interest  in  one  of  the  members  of 
the  household — a  girl  by  the  name 
of  Madeleine.  She  feared  lest  pov- 
erty and  her  parents'  bad  example 
might  be  a  source  of  danger  to 
one  of  her  age.  Madeleine  is  irre- 
proachable in  her  conduct,  but  weak 
in  character,  like  her  father  and 
mother.  Fran9oise  made  me  pro- 
mise to  watch  over  her.  She  would 
have  begged  this  favor  of  you,  ma- 
demoiselle, had  not  a  special  reason 
prevented  her.  She  knew  Made- 
leine's parents  were  envious,  and 
regarded  the  rich  with  an  evil  eye. 
She  feared  exposing  you  to  imperti- 
nence if  she  brought  you  in  contact 
with  them.  Consequently,  she  re- 
commended them  to  me.  Made- 
leine has  told  me  of  your  call  at 
the  house.  Your  kindness  touched 
the  mother.  As  to  the  father,  his 


92 


Madame  Agnes. 


shameful  passion  for  drink  has  bru- 
alized  him." 

Eugenie  listened  with  undisguis- 
ed interest,  and  softened  as  Louis 
continued.  When  he  had  finished, 
she  said :  "  What  do  you  wish  me 
to  do  ?  to  show  some  interest  in 
them  ?" 

"  It  would  be  a  very  timely  act 
of  charity.  The  mother  has  not 
done  any  work  for  several  days,  the 
father  is  gone  from  morning  till 
night,  and  the  daughter  is  discour- 
aged. You  can  rouse  her  courage 
much  better  than  I.  And  allow  me 
to  say,  mademoiselle,  that  the  diffi- 
culties that  once  might  have  hinder- 
ed you  being  removed,  this  work,  for 
many  reasons,  is  much  more  suit- 
able for  you  than  for  me." 

"  I  will  go  to  see  them." 

"Thank  you,  mademoiselle,"  re- 
plied Louis.  "I  am  overwhelmed 
with  cares  and  occupations,  and  give 
the  family  up  to  you  with  pleasure." 

"Do  you  not  mean  to  visit  them 
any  more  ?" 

"  I  have  a  great  mind  not  to." 

"Why  not?" 

"  It  is  a  delicate  subject,  but  I 
think  the  less  I  go  there,  the  better." 

"  I  understand  you,  .  .  .  but  still 
I  do  not  think  you  are  right,  fats  ce 
que  dois,  advienne  que  pourra,  *  is  my 
motto.  Is  it  not  yours  ?" 

"  It  would  be,  mademoiselle,  if 
the  world  were  not  so  malicious. 
As  it  is,  people  even  of  the  best  in- 
tentions cannot  take  too  many  pre- 
cautions. I  confess  there  is  nothing 
I  dread  more  than  calumny.  It  al- 
ways does  injury,  and  it  is  hard  to 
feel  we  are  losing  the  esteem  of  those 
whose  good  opinion  we  desire  the 
most." 

"  People  who  allow  themselves  to 
be  influenced  by  calumny  cannot 
have  much  character." 

*  Do  your  duty,  come  what  will  1 


"  Do  you  think  so,  mademoi- 
selle ?" 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  Before  doubt- 
ing a  person  I  have  once  esteemed, 
I  wait  till  their  acts  openly  condemn 
them.  If  I  have  the  misfortune  to 
despise  them  then,  it  is  because  they 
force  me  to  do  so." 

These  words  were  uttered  in  a 
significant  tone.  Eugenie  then  left 
Louis  abruptly  with  a  gracious  and 
dignified  salutation. 

Louis  stood  looking  at  her  as  she 
went  away,  admiring  her  slender 
form  and  the  exquisite  distinction 
of  her  whole  person.  This  sudden 
meeting  with  her  seemed  like  one  of 
those  glimpses  of  the  sun  that  some- 
times occur  in  the  midst  of  the  most 
violent  storms.  He  thanked  God; 
he  felt  happy  at  her  indirect  assur- 
ance that  she  still  regarded  him  with 
esteem.  He  asked  himself  if  she  did 
not  love  him.  He  did  not  dare  be- 
lieve it,  but  was  almost  ready  to  do 
so.  One  fear  alone  remained  in  all 
its  strength — the  fear  of  incurring 
Mr.  Smithson's  anger  by  co-operat- 
ing in  the  conversion  of  Adams. 

Ah  !  if  Louis  had  not  been  hearti- 
ly devoted  to  his  faith,  how  soon  he 
would  have  despatched  this  trouble- 
some neophyte !  But,  no  ;  he  ought 
not,  he  could  not.  He  consoled 
himself  by  repeating  Eugenie's  words, 
which  had  struck  him  in  a  peculiar 
manner:  Fats  ce  que  dais,  advienne 
quepourra.  ..."  Well,"  thought  he, 
"  what  I  ought  to  do  is  to  enlighten 
those  who  seek  the  truth.  ...  I  yield 
to  a  sense  of  duty.  Eugenie  is  a 
Catholic  as  well  as  I,  and  cannot 
help  approving  of  my  course.  If 
Mr.  Smithson  is  displeased,  his 
daughter,  to  be  consistent  with  her 
principles,  must  confess  that  I  am 
right." 

As  Louis  entered  his  room,  a  note 
was  given  him  from  me,  imploring  hira 
to  come  to  us  as  soon  as  possible. 


Madame  Agnes. 


93 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 
VICTOR'S  DEATH. — PLOTS  AGAINST    LOUIS. 


For  ten  long  months,  Victor  had 
suffered  from  a  terrible  malady  that 
never  lets  go.  Every  remedy  had 
been  tried  in  vain.  His  disease  was 
phthisis  of  a  peculiar  kind  and  of 
the  most  alarming  character.  The 
two  physicians  we  consulted  could 
only  reply  when  their  patient  insist- 
ed on  knowing  the  truth  :  "  Your  ill- 
ness is  of  an  extremely  serious  na- 
ture ;  but  you  are  young,  and  at  your 
age  nature  often  finds  unexpected  re- 
sources in  a  time  of  danger." 

It  was  impossible  to  cure  him. 
They  could  only  prolong  his  life,  and 
this  was  the  aim  of  the  physicians. 
By  dint  of  care,  they  succeeded  in 
keeping  him  alive  till  the  beginning 
of  September.  Then  the  disease, 
whose  ravages  we  had  not  realized, 
suddenly  came  to  a  crisis.  Through- 
out the  whole  course  of  his  suffer- 
ings, I  had,  in  spite  of  everything, 
cherished  a  secret  hope  in  the  depths 
of  my  heart.  When  one  of  those 
favorable  turns  came  peculiar  to 
such  complaints,  I  flattered  myself 
that  he  would  get  well,  and  aban- 
doned myself  to  a  foolish  joy.  This 
joy,  so  natural,  and  yet  so  unreasona- 
ble, gave  Victor  pain.  He  endeavored 
to  moderate  it  in  a  thousand  ingen- 
ious and  delicate  ways.  He  himself 
was  never  under  any  illusion.  His 
illness  was  fatal:  he  knew  it,  and 
calmly  prepared  himself  for  what  he 
called  the  great  journey.  He  was 
greatly  afflicted  to  see  I  was  not,  like 
himself,  preparing  for  our  separation, 
the  thought  of  which  became  more 
painful  in  proportion  to  the  horror 
with  which  I  regarded  it.  He  tried 
to  banish  all  my  false  hopes,  but  his 
efforts  were  in  vain.  I  clung  to  them 
without  owning  it.  I  only  gave  them 
up  at  the  time  I  have  arrived  at  in 
my  sad  story.  Then  I  began  to  real- 


ize the  frightful  truth,  and,  as  I  saw 
his  alarming  symptoms  increase,  I 
thought  I  should  die. 

Victor  at  length  succeeded  in  re- 
storing  somewhat  of  calmness  to  my 
soul.  With,  a  strength  of  mind  that 
increased  in  proportion  to  the  near- 
ness of  that  awful  moment,  he  made 
his  final  preparations.  He  gave 
himself  up  to  the  contemplation  of 
eternal  things.  His  friend,  the  good 
Abbe  Merlin,  administered  the  last 
consolations  of  religion.  Louis  re- 
ceived them  with  a  faith  that  edified 
every  one,  and  a  joy  that  showed 
how  he  had  profited  by  his  illness  to 
prepare  for  heaven.  He  was  al- 
ready there  in  spirit,  and  longed  to 
be  there  in  reality.  This  touched 
me,  and  I  confess,  to  my  great  shame, 
I  reproached  him  in  my  excessive 
grief  with  some  expressions  of  bitter- 
ness. This  was  the  last  sorrow  I 
caused  my  poor  husband.  Such 
reproaches  could  only  come  from  a 
selfish  soul.  I  now  blush  at  the  re- 
membrance. 

All  these  necessary  steps  having 
been  taken,  Victor  told  me  I  must 
send  for  Louis.  As  you  know,  he 
received  my  note  in  the  evening 
That  very  night  he  arrived.  It  was 
high  time.  We  all  three  passed  the 
night  together  talking,  praying,  and 
weeping  by  turns.  Victor  consoled 
us.  He  even  forced  himself  to  ex- 
press anxiety  as  to  Louis'  affairs. 
The  latter  spoke  of  them  very  un- 
willingly, for  his  grief  overpower- 
ed his  sense  of  love.  When  Victor 
learned  the  trials  he  was  undergoing, 
he  said : 

"  My  friend,  I  fear  they  are  con- 
triving some  new  plot  against  you. 
Eug6nie  loves  you;  there  is  no 
doubt  of  that  in  my  mind ;  but  does 
she  love  you  well  enough  to  with- 


94 


Madame  Agnes. 


stand  all  the  difficulties  Chat  are 
rising  up  around  you  ?  I  know  not. 
If,  with  her  knowledge  of  you,  she 
allows  herself  to  be  influenced  by 
people  of  evil  intentions,  it  seems  to 
me  you  will  have  a  right  to  judge 
her  severely." 

"  Even  then  I  could  not,"  said 
Louis. 

"  Your  answer  does  not  surprise 
me.  It  proves  I  was  right  in  my 
impressions.  You  love  her  as  much 
as  a  good  man  ought  to  love.  You 
even  love  her  too  well ;  for  I  believe 
your  affection  would  render  you  in- 
sensible to  the  truth  rather  than 
blame  the  object  of  your  love." 

"  That  is  true." 

"  I  cannot  approve  of  that.  It  is 
not  right.  There  is  only  one  thing, 
there  is  only  one  Being,  a  noble  and 
well-balanced  soul,  a  soul  thoroughly 
imbued  with  piety,  allows  itself  to 
love  above  all  things — that  thing  is 
truth,  that  Being  is  God.  Believe 
me,  if  Eugenie  allows  herself  to  be 
alienated  from  you,  it  will  be  a  proof; 
she  has  not  the  worth  you  give  her 
credit  for,  and  also  that  it  is  not  the 
will  of  God  she  should  become  your 
wife.  Well,  I  will  not  oppose  the 
indulgence  you  feel  towards  her.  I 
consent  to  it.  Say  to  yourself  she  has 
been  deceived,  that  she  is  innocent, 
but  submit  to  the  divine  will.  Do 
not  attempt  impossibilities  to  link  to- 
gether the  chain  God  himself  breaks, 
however  dear  she- may  be  to  you." 

Victor  seemed  to  have  recalled  all 
the  energy  of  his  manly  nature  to  utter 
these  words.  His  firmness  and  judi- 
cious counsel  were  not  lost  on  Louis. 

"  I  will  follow  your  advice,"  said 
he ;  "  but  promise  to  pray  this  sorrow 
may  be  spared  me.  God  has  en- 
dowed the  one  I  love  with  a  soul  so 
elevated  that  it  would  be  easy  to 
make  her  as  pious  as  an  angel.  .  .  . 
And  I  love  her  so  much  !" 

"  My  poor  friend  !  I  do  not  know 


that  I  shall  be  permitted  to  pray  at 
once  for  you  in  yonder  world.  If  I 
can,  I  will  pray  God  you  may  be 
united  with  her,  if  this  union  will 
render  you  happy — happy,  under- 
stand me,  in  the  Christian  sense  of 
the  word ;  that  is  to  say,  happy  and 
better,  both  of  you." 

In  the  middle  of  the  night,  Victor 
requested  me  to  go  into  the  next 
chamber  for  some  papers  he  wanted. 
He  availed  himself  of  this  opportun- 
ity to  recommend  me  to  Louis'  care, 
as  I  afterwards  learned. 

"Agnes,"  said  he,  "has  exhausted 
her  strength  in  taking  care  of  me  so 
many  months.  Her  physical  and 
mental  strength  are  now  merely  fac- 
titious. It  is  the  very  excess  of  her 
grief  that  sustains  her.  As  soon  as  I 
am  gone,  she  will  be  sensible  of  her 
weakness.  I  fear  the  reaction  may 
prove  fatal  to  her.  I  implore  you  to 
take  her  and  her  mother  to  some 
place  near  you  in  the  country.  Find 
them  a  temporary  residence  that  is 
healthy  and  pleasant.  Change  of 
scene  and  pure  country  air  will  do 
her  more  good  than  anything  else, 
especially  if  you  add  the  benefit  of 
your  efforts  to  console  her,  on  which 
I  depend." 

Louis  made  the  required  promise. 
.  .  .  But  these  recollections  are  still 
too  painful.  Alas !  they  will  always 
be  so.  You  will  excuse  me  from 
dwelling  on  them. 

The  next  day,  I  lost  the  compan- 
ion of  my  life.  That  pure  soul,  so 
full  of  intelligence,  sweetness,  and 
energy,  took  flight  for  heaven,  leav- 
ing me  for  ever  sad  and  desolate  up- 
on earth.  .  .  .  Oh !  how  happy  are 
those  women  who  to  the  very  hour 
of  death  are  permitted  by  God  to 
retain  the  companionship  of  a  hus- 
band tenderly  loved,  and  worthy  of 
being  so !  ... 

The  first  moments  of  overpower- 
ing grief  had  scarcely  passed  before 


Madame  Agnes. 


95 


that  which  Victor  had  foreseen  took 
place.  All  at  once  I  lost  my  appar- 
ent strength.  I  was  weighed  down 
with  a  dull  despair.  My  poor  mo- 
ther trembled  for  my  life.  Through- 
out the  day  I  sat  motionless  in  an 
arm-chair,  interested  in  no  person  or 
subject.  My  lips  alone  made  an 
effort  from  time  to  time  to  murmur 
the  words  at  once  so  bitter  and  so 
sweet :  "  O  Lord !  thou  gavest  him  to 
me ;  thou  hast  taken  him  away ;  thy 
will  be  done !"  That  was  my  only 
prayer.  I  repeated  it  from  morning 
till  night.  Thus  lifting  my  soul  hea- 
venward, I  found  strength  to  resist 
the  temptation  to  rebel  which  con- 
stantly assailed  me. 

During  that  sad  time,  Louis'  sister 
joined  him  in  unceasing  attentions 
to  me.  Louis  gave  himself  entirely 
up  to  my  service,  and  notified  Mr. 
Smithson  he  should  be  absent  sever- 
al days  longer  from  the  manufactory. 
You  can  realize  how  generous  this 
was  in  him.  To  absent  himself  at 
a  time  his  dearest  interests  were  at 
stake,  and  leave  the  field  clear  for 
his  enemies,  was  making  an  heroic 
sacrifice  to  friendship.  It  was  not 
till  a  subsequent  period  I  fully  ap- 
preciated it.  At  that  time,  I  was 
wholly  absorbed  in  myself.  Ex- 
treme grief  becomes  a  kind  of  pas- 
sion, and,  like  all  passions,  it  ren- 
ders us  selfish. 

When  Louis  at  last  saw  me  a 
little  calmer,  he  told  me  of  Victor's 
wish.  "  His  last  request  was,"  said 
he,  "  that  you  should  go  into  the 
country  awhile  with  your  mother. 
The  air  is  purer  there,  and  you  will 
regain  your  strength." 

I  exclaimed  against  the  proposi- 
tion. I  declared  I  would  not  leave 
the  house  in  which  Victor  died — 
where  everything  recalled  his  pre- 
sence. Louis  insisted,  urged  on  by 
the  physicians,  who  declared  the 
change  indispensable. 


"  Victor  himself  impiores  you 
through  me  to  consent,"  said  he. 
"  Remember  you  will  be  still  obey- 
ing him  in  so  doing." 

I  ended  by  yielding  to  their  per- 
suasions. "  But  where  shall  I  go  ?" 
said  I. 

"  To  St.  M ,  where  you  will  be 

near  me.  My  sister  went  there  yes- 
terday, and  found  you  pleasant  lodg- 
ings. You  can  easily  go  that  far 
with  your  mother  and  sister." 

We  went  there  the  next  day.  It 
was  Louis  who  made  all  the  ar- 
rangements, and  with  how  much  so- 
licitude and  affection  I  need  not 
say.  At  length  he  left  us  to  resume 
his  duties  at  the  mill.  The  last 
favor  I  begged  of  him  was  to  come 
and  see  me  often,  but  not  to  men- 
tion to  any  one  the  place  of  my  re- 
tirement. Like  all  who  are  in  real 
affliction,  solitude  alone  pleased  me. 
The  first  time  for  a  week,  Louis' 
thoughts,  after  leaving  me,  recurred 
to  the  subjects  that  had  absorbed 
his  mind  previous  to  Victor's  death. 
He  began  to  be  alarmed.  He  won- 
dered if  Eugenie  had  not  forgotten 
him,  if  she  really  loved  him,  if  Mr. 
Smithson  was  disposed  to  regard  him 
with  more  or  with  less  favor,  and  if 
Albert  had  not  profited  by  his  absence 
to  injure  him  in  the  estimation  of  Eu- 
genie's family.  But  he  could  only 
form  conjectures  as  to  all  this. 

Now  that  these  events  have  passed 
away,  I  can  seize  all  the  details  at  a 
glance.  I  shall  therefore  tell  you 
many  things  Louis  was  necessarily 
ignorant  of  when  he  returned  to  the 
manufactory.  He  would  have  trem- 
bled had  he  been  aware  of  them. 
He  had  scarcely  left  his  post  in 
order  to  be  with  Victor  during  his 
last  moments,  when  his  enemies, 
thinking  the  time  propitious,  resolv- 
ed to  profit  by  his  absence  to  effect 
his  ruin.  They  all  set  to  work  at 
once. 


96 


Madame  Agnes. 


The  deceitful  Adams,  who  had 
sought  to  be  enlightened  as  to  his 
religious  doubts,  went  around  telling 
everybody  the  engineer  had  con- 
vinced him  of  the  falseness  of  his  re- 
ligion, which  he  resolved  to  abjure, 
and  only  waited  for  Louis'  return. 
People  began  by  laughing  at  what 
he  said.  They  had  no  great  opinion 
of  the  fellow.  They  suspected  his 
connection  with  Durand,  who  was 
regarded  with  fear.  Some  even 
thought  it  was  all  a  trick.  But 
Adams  returned  to  the  charge;  he 
spoke  with  an  air  of  conviction,  he 
seemed  changed.  To  carry  out  the 
scheme,  he  apparently  broke  off  with 
his  former  friend,  Durand. 

All  these  things  were  repeated  from 
one  to  another  till  they  reached 
Mr.  Smithson's  ears.  He  had  been 
obliged  to  superintend  the  workmen 
during  Louis'  absence  from  the 
manufactory.  Already  inclined  to 
be  suspicious  of  the  engineer,  and 
ignorant  of  the  ties  that  bound  him 
to  Victor,  Mr.  Smithson  interiorly 
accused  him  of  first  manifesting  an 
ultra,  I  may  say,  fanatical  zeal,  and 
then  falling  into  an  indifference  and 
carelessness  unworthy  of  a  consist- 
ent man.  "  Because  one  of  his 
friends  is  ill,"  he  said,  "  is  that  a  suf- 
ficient reason  for  abandoning  his 
post,  leaving  me  overwhelmed  with 
work,  and  interrupting  the  school  he 
had  begun  ?  .  .  .  And  all  this  with- 
out making  any  arrangement  before- 
hand !  .  .  .  The  man  is  incon- 
sistent !" 

Mr.  Smithson  was  therefore  un- 
favorably disposed  towards  Louis, 
when,  to  complete  his  dissatisfaction, 
came  the  news,  at  first  doubtful, 
then  certain,  of  Adams'  intended  ab- 
juration. He  became  so  angry  that 
he  could  not  contain  himself,  though 
generally  so  capable  of  self-control. 
The  interests  of  his  national  religion 
were  at  stake.  He  at  once  became 


furious,  and  made  no  effort  to  con- 
ceal it. 

Mme.  Smithson  and  Albert  of 
course  took  Mr.  Smithson's  part 
against  Louis.  He  was  berated  as 
a  man  of  no  discretion,  deceitful, 
fanatical,  and  a  Jesuit  in  disguise. 
Mme.  Smithson  was  one  of  those 
people  who  boldly  say :  "  I  don't 
think  much  of  a  person  who  changes 
his  religion  !"  As  if  it  were  not  mere- 
ly reasonable  for  a  man  to  give  up 
error  for  truth  when  the  truth  is  re- 
vealed to  him.  Albert  was  influ- 
enced by  motives  you  are  already 
aware  of.  He  was  triumphant.  He 
had  never  expected  such  success 
from  so  simple  a  trick.  Circumstan- 
ces had  indeed  favored  him  but  too 
well.  Seeing  Mr.  Smithson  in  such  a 
frame  of  mind,  he  had  no  doubts  of 
his  dismissing  Louis  as  soon  as  he  re- 
turned. 

But  his  joy  was  strangely  dimin- 
ished by  an  unexpected  incident. 
They  were  discussing  the  affair  one 
evening  in  the  salon.  "  Excuse  me, 
father,"  said  Eugenie,  "  for  meddling 
with  what  does  not  concern  me,  but 
you  know  I  always  was  the  advocate 
of  a  bad  cause." 

Every  one  looked  up  at  this  unex- 
pected interruption.  Eugenie  was  not 
a  woman  to  be  intimidated  when  she 
foresaw  opposition  :  rather,  the  con- 
trary. She  continued,  without  being 
troubled  in  the  least :  "  I  find  a 
great  many  are  disposed  to  attack 
M.  Louis,  but  no  one  thinks  of  de- 
fending him.  It  were  to  be  wished 
some  one  would  be  his  defender, 
though  I  do  not  say  his  conduct  is 
irreproachable." 

"  Very  far  from  that,"  said  Mr. 
Smithson. 

"  But  if  he  is  not  innocent,  is  he 
as  culpable  as  he  may  have  appear- 
ed ?  What  is  he  accused  of  ?  He 
has  been  absent  several  days  from 
the  mill.  This  adds  greatly  to  your 


Madame  Agnes. 


97 


labors,  my  dear  father,  but  his  ab- 
sence is  justifiable  to  a  certain  de- 
gree. Do  you  know  M.  Louis'  his- 
tory ?" 

"  As  well  as  you,  I  suppose, 
child." 

"  Perhaps  not." 

"  Has  he  related  it  to  you  ?" 

"  No ;  Fanny  took  pains  to  do 
that.  Fanny  is  at  once  curious  and 
a  gossip." 

"  My  cousin  is  very- severe  towards 
so  devoted  a  servant.  Is  she  indul- 
gent only  to  the  culpable  ?" 

This  ill-timed  interruption  gave  Eu- 
genie a  glimpse  of  light.  "  There  is 
an  understanding  between  them," 
she  said  to  herself,  "  and  that  ex- 
plains many  things."  She  continued, 
addressing  her  father :  "  M.  Louis 
made  an  attempt  at  his  own  life.  He 
was  drowning,  when  a  brave  man 
and  an  invalid — M.  Barnier — at  the 
risk  of  his  own  life,  threw  himself 
into  the  river,  and  saved  him.  This 
was  the  origin  of  their  friendship, 
which  does  honor  to  M.  Louis  and 
to  the  person  so  devoted  to*  him. 
This  M.  Barnier  is  dying  to-day." 

"  Who  told  you  so,  my  child  ?" 
asked  Mr.  Smithson. 

"  The  newspapers  from  town  allude 
to  it.  M.  Barnier  is  a  well-known 
man,  and  esteemed  by  his  very 
enemies  themselves.  It  is  to  be 
with  him  M.  Louis  is  gone.  Does 
not  such  a  motive  justify  his  ab- 
sence ?" 

Mr.  Smithson  had  attentively  lis- 
tened to  what  his  daughter  said.  If 
we  except  what  related  to  religious 
subjects,  he  was  an  impartial  and 
even  kindly  disposed  man.  "With 
such  a  reason  for  his  absence,"  he 
replied,  "  I  shall  cease  to  regard  it  as 
inexcusable.  Nevertheless,  he  ought 
to  have  made  me  aware  of  what  had 
taken  place.  He  simply  said  he  was 
going  to  stay  with  a  sick  friend :  that 
was  not  a  sufficient  explanation. 


What  I  dislike  in  the  man  is  his  dis- 
simulation." 

"  I  acknowledge  there  may  be 
some  reason  for  distrust,"  resumed 
Eugenie,  "  but  he  has  given  no 
proofs  of  duplicity  since  he  came 
here  that  I  am  aware  of.  He  cer- 
tainly has  done  nothing  without  con- 
sulting you,  father." 

"  He  did,  to  be  sure,  propose 
several  things  he  wished  to  do ;  but 
did  he  reveal  his  real  aim.  his  ulti- 
mate obje»t  ?" 

"  Had  he  any  ?" 

"Had  he  any?  .  .  .  The 
Adams  affair  proves  it.  The  even- 
ing-school and  the  library  were  only 
founded  to  propagate  Catholicism." 

"  With  what  object  ?" 

"  The  aim  of  these  enthusiasts  is 
always  the  same.  They  wish  to  im- 
part their  belief  to  others,  that  they 
may  afterwards  exercise  authority 
over  their  disciples.  Louis  and  the 
curt  are  linked  together.  Their  pro- 
ject is  to  make  my  manufactory  like 
a  convent,  where  they  can  reign  in 
spite  of  me.  But  I  will  settle  that 
matter." 

"  And  you  will  do  right,  uncle," 
said  Albert.  "  There  is  no  tyranny 
more  artful  and  more  encroaching 
than  that  of  the  priesthood." 

"  I  did  not  know  my  cousin  de- 
tested the  clergy  to  such  a  degree," 
said  Eugenie,  with  an  air  of  mockery 
and  disdain  which  convinced  Albert 
he  had  made  a  fresh  blunder.  "  I 
thought,  on  the  contrary,  you  had  a 
sincere  respect  for  priests.  It  seems 
I  was  deceived.  .  .  ." 

"  Enough  on  this  point,"  said  Mr, 
Smithson.  "  I  will  see  Adams,  and 
learn  from  him  what  has  occurred. 
And  I  will  speak  to  the  engineer 
accordingly  when  he  returns." 

This  conversation  took  place  in 
the  evening.  Mme.  Smithson  was 
present.  She  did  not  speak,  but 
was  extremely  irritated.  Eugenic 


Madame  Agnes. 


little  thought  she  had  caused  her 
mother  as  great  an  affliction  as  she 
had  ever  experienced  in  her  life.  For 
ten,  perhaps  fifteen,  years,  Mme. 
Smithson  had  clung  to  the  idea  of  a 
match  between  her  daughter  and 
nephew.  She  had  taken  comfort  in 
the  thought  of  uniting  the  two  beings 
she  loved  best  on  earth.  Besides,  it 
was  a  good  way,  and  the  only  one 
in  her  powei,  of  securing  to  Albert 
a  fortune  he  had  need  of;  for  the 
career  he  had  embraced,  and  the 
tastes  he  had  imbibed,  made  it  neces- 
sary he  should  be  wealthy,  which 
was  by  no  means  the  case.  This 
plan  till  lately  had  been  confined  to 
Mme.  Smithson's  own  breast;  but, 
since  Albert's  arrival,  she  had  ven- 
tured to  allude  to  it  in  her  conversa- 
tions with  him.  The  latter  respond- 
ed with  enthusiastic  gratitude,  ex- 
pressing an  ardent  desire  to  have 
the  proposed  union  realized.  Alas  ! 
from  the  beginning  there  had  been 
one  difficulty  which  fretted  Mme. 
Smithson.  Would  her  husband  ap- 
prove of  her  scheme?  As  Albert 
approached  manhood,  this  consent 
became  more  and  more  doubtful. 
Mr.  Smithson  treated  his  nephew 
kindly,  but  had  no  great  opinion  of 
him,  and  did  not  like  him.  How 
overcome  this  obstacle  ?  There  was 
only  one  way  :  Eugenie  herself  must 
desire  the  marriage.  Mr.  Smithson 
never  opposed  his  daughter,  and 
would  then  overlook  his  antipathy 
to  the  object  of  her  choice.  Things 
were  having  a  very  different  tenden- 
cy. Mme.  Smithson  had  long  tried 
to  hide  the  fact  from  herself,  but  she 
must  at  last  acknowledge  it:  Eu- 
genie manifested  no  partiality  for  her 
cousin.  This  evening's  occurrence 
banished  all  illusion.  She  not  only 
saw  Eugenie  rad  not  the  least 
thought  of  marrying  Albert,  but  she 
suspected  her  of  loving  another,  .  .  . 
a  man  Mme.  Smuhson  could  no 


longer  enduie.  He  had  in  her  eyes 
three  faults,  any  one  of  which  would 
have  set  her  against  him  :  he  was 
her  dear  nephew's  rival,  he  had  no 
property,  and  he  was  grave  and 
pious  to  a  degree  that  could  not  fail 
to  be  repulsive  to  a  trivial  woman 
and  a  half-way  Christian  like  her. 
To  complete  her  despair,  Albert 
came  secretly  to  see  her  that  very 
same  evening. 

"  Aunt,"  said  he,  "  our  affairs  are 
getting  on  badly !  .  .  .  Confess 
that  I  had  more  penetration  than 
you  were  willing  to  allow." 

"  What !  what !  what  do  you  mean  ? 
Do  you  think  Eugenie  loves  that 
spendthrift,  that  bigot  ?  .  .  .  . 
Nonsense !  she  only  wishes  to  teaze 
you." 

"  I  am  of  a  different  opinion.  I 
have  long  been  aware  of  her  fancy 
for  him.  What  she  said  in  his  favor 
this  evening  was  very  judicious  and 
moderate,  but  there  was  in  the  tone 
of  her  voice,  ...  in  her  look,  a 
something  I  could  not  mistake.  For 
the  first  time,  she  betrayed  her  feel- 
ings. I  tell  you  she  loves  him ! " 

"  Why,  that  would  be  dreadful !  " 

"  I  foresaw  it." 

"  Foresaw  ! — such  a  thing  ?  " 

"  Eugenie  is  romantic,  and  the  rogue 
puts  on  the  air  of  a  hero  of  romance." 

"  Set  your  heart  at  rest,  Albert. 
I  promise  to  watch  over  your  inter- 
ests. I  assure  you,  in  case  of  need, 
I  will  bring  your  uncle  himself  to 
your  aid." 

"  I  will  talk  to  Eugenie  to-morrow 
morning,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I 
shall  never  believe  in  such  presump- 
tion till  she  confesses  it  herself." 

The  next  morning,  Mme.  Smithson 
went,  full  of  anxiety,  to  her  daughter's 
chamber.  Eugenie  was  that  very 
moment  thinking  of  Louis.  The 
more  she  examined  her  own  heart, 
the  more  clearly  she  saw  herself 
forced  to  acknowledge  her  esteera 


Madame  Agnes. 


99 


for  him.  She  had  inwardly  con- 
demned him  many  times,  but  had 
as  often  found  her  suspicions  were 
groundless.  Without  showing  the 
least  partiality  for  Louis,  she  could 
not  help  seeing  he  was  intelligent, 
energetic,  and  sincerely  pious.  She 
even  acknowledged  that,  of  all  the 
men  she  had  ever  met,  not  one  was 
to  be  compared  to  him ;  he  was 
superior  to  them  all  in  every  respect. 
From  this,  it  was  not  a  long  step  to 
confess  him  worthy  of  her  affection. 
But  he — did  he  love  her  ?  .  .  . 
Not  a  word,  not  a  sign,  had  escaped 
him  to  indicate  such  a  thing,  and 
yet  there  was  in  his  bearing  towards 
her,  in  the  tone  of  his  voice,  and  in 
the  value  he  attached  to  her  good 
opinion,  a  something  that  assured 
her  she  had  made  a  profound  impres- 
sion on  him.  But,  then,  why  this 
coldness  so  rigorously  maintained  ? 
.  .  .  He  was  poor — and  through 
his  own  fault — while  she  was  rich. 
His  coldness  perhaps  resulted  from 
extreme  delicacy. 

Eugenie  cut  short  her  reflections 
by  repeating  :  "  Does  he  love  me  ? 
,  .  .  It  may  be.  Do  I  love  him  ? 
...  I  dare  not  say  no.  But  we 
are  in  a  peculiar  position.  If  I  find 
him,  at  the  end  of  the  account, 
worthy  of  being  my  husband,  doubt- 
less I  should  have  to  make  the 
advances !  But  I  like  originality  in 
everything.  My  father  alone  excites 
my  fears.  M.  Louis  would  not  be 
his  choice.  Why  does  he  show  him- 
self so  zealous  a  Catholic  at  present  ? 
Why  not  wait  till  he  is  married — if 
married  we  ever  are  ?  Then  he  could 
be  as  devoted  to  the  church  as  he 
pleases." 

Mme.  Smithson  was  hardly  to  be 
recognized  when  she  entered  her 
daughter's  room.  She  was  generally 
affable  and  smiling,  but  now  her  face 
was  lowering  and  agitated.  She 
was  evidently  very  nervous,  as  was 


usually  the  case  when  she  had  some 
disagreeable  communication  to  make 
to  her  daughter.  Eugenie  at  once 
divined  what  was  passing  in  her 
mother's  heart.  She  was  careful, 
however,  not  to  aid  her  in  unburden- 
ing herself. 

After  speaking  of  several  things  of 
no  importance,  Mme.  Smithson  as- 
sumed an  unconcerned  air — a  sign 
of  her  extreme  embarrassment — and 
broached  the  subject  with  a  boldness 
peculiar  to  timid  people  when  they 
see  there  is  no  way  of  receding. 

"  I  must  confess  that  was  a  strange 
notion  of  yours  last  evening," 

"What  notion  do  you  refer  to, 
mother  ?"  said  Eugenie,  in  a  tone  at 
once  dignified  and  ingenuous.  She 
felt  the  storm  was  coming.  As  usual 
on  such  occasions,  she  laid  aside  the 
familiar  thou  for  the  respectful  you. 
There  was  a  spice  of  mischief  in 
her  tactics  which  I  do  not  intend  to 
applaud.  She  thus  redoubled  her 
mother's  embarrassment,  and  by  the 
politeness  of  her  manner  increased 
her  hesitation. 

"  What  notion  do  I  refer  to  ?  .  .  . 
You  need  not  ask  that.  You  know 
well  enough  what  I  allude  to.  ... 
Yes;  why  should  you,  without  any 
obligation,  set  yourself  up  to  defend 
a  man  who  is  no  relation  of  ours  or 
even  one  of  our  friends,  but  a  mere 
employ6  of  your  father's;  one  who 
suits  him  certainly,  but  who  is  likely  to 
cause  trouble  in  the  house ;  .  .  .  who 
is,  in  short,  a  dangerous  man  ?  .  .  ." 

"  You  astonish  me  to  the  last  de- 
gree, mother!  I  never,  no,  never 
should  have  suspected  M.  Louis  of 
dangerous  designs,  or  that  he  even 
had  the  power  to  disturb  us." 

"  Raillery,  my  dear,  is  in  this  case 
quite  out  of  place.  What  secret  mo- 
tive have  you  for  undertaking  hia 
defence  ?" 

"  I  ?  I  have  none.  What  motive 
could  I  have  ?" 


loo 


Madame  Agnes. 


"  Then,  why  take  sides  against 
us?" 

"  Why,  I  have  not  taken  sides 
against  you!" 

"  How  can  you  deny  it  ?" 

"  I  do  deny  it,  mother,  with  your 
permission.  My  father  imputed  in- 
tentions to  M.  Louis  which  per- 
haps he  never  had.  I  merely  ob- 
served it  would  be  more  just  to 
wait  for  proofs  before  condemning 
him.  That  is  all,  and  a  very  small 
affair." 

"  Wait  for  proofs  before  condemn- 
ing him,  do  you  say  ?  .  .  .  Well, 
he  has  them.  Adams  has  confessed 
everything.  .  .  .  He  acknowledges 
that  M.  Louis  endeavored  to  con- 
vert him,  lent  him  books,  taught  him 
the  catechism,  and,  what  was  worse, 
dwelt  a  great  deal  on  hell  as  a  place 
he  could  not  fail  to  go  to  if  he, 
Adams,  remained  a  Protestant.  The 
poor  fellow  has  not  recovered  from 
his  terror  yet !  .  .  .  Your  father  has 
talked  to  him  very  kindly,  given  him 
good  advice,  mingled  with  kind  re- 
proaches. Adams  was  affected,  and 
ended  by  saying  he  never  wished  to 
see  M.  Louis  again;  and  he  did  a 
lucky  thing !" 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  Adams  is 
either  a  simpleton  or  a  hypocrite." 

"  Eug6nie,  that  is  altogether  too 
much !" 

"  I  do  not  see  anything  very 
astonishing  in  what  I  have  said. 
Please  listen  to  me  a  moment,  moth- 
er. To  hesitate  between  two  creeds, 
without  being  able  to  decide  on 
either,  seems  to  me  a  proof  of  weak- 
ness. But  if,  on  the  contrary,  Adams 
invented  this  story  of  his  conversion 
in  order  to  yield  at  a  favorable  mo- 
ment and  gain  the  good-will  of  my 
father  more  than  ever,  would  not 
this  show  a  duplicity  and  artfulness 
that  could  only  belong  to  a  hypo- 
crite ?  •  .  ." 

(<  Adams  could  not  have  invented 


such  a  thing.  It  would  have  ren- 
dered him  liable  to  dismissal." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  mother. 
Adams  did  not  risk  anything.  The 
course  he  has  taken  proves  it.  And 
that  is  precisely  what  makes  me  dis- 
trust him." 

"  How  can  you  impute  such  mo- 
tives to  anybody!  .  .  .  Adams  has 
renounced  his  intention,  because  he 
was  convinced  by  your  father's  ar- 
guments. He  has  behaved  like  an 
honest  man !" 

"  Excuse  me,  mother ;  we  are  in 
more  danger  than  ever  of  not  undei- 
standing  each  other.  Why!  you 
seem  to  rejoice  that  Adams  has  re- 
turned to  his  errors !  You  appear  to 
think  his  course  very  natural,  and  to 
approve  of  it !" 

"  Yes,  I  do  approve  of  it ;  people 
ought  not  to  change  their  religion." 

"  You  might  as  well  say  a  person 
ought  not  to  acknowledge  his  error 
when  he  is  mistaken.  I  am  by  no 
means  of  your  opinion,  though  I  am 
not  very  religious." 

"  A  propos  of  religion,  my  dear, 
you  seem  to  have  taken  a  strange 
turn.  You  have  grown  so  rigorous 
as  to  astonish  me;  there  is  not  an 
ultra  notion  you  do  not  approve  of. 
You  have  completely  changed  since 
.  .  .  But  I  will  not  make  you 
angry." 

"  Since  M.  Louis  came  here  ?  .  .  . 
A  pretty  idea.  But  I  am  not  sur- 
prised." 

"You  said  it  yourself,  but  it  is 
true.  Since  that  man  came  here, 
you  have  changed  every  way.  I 
know  not  why  or  wherefore,  but  it  is 
a  fact.  Your  cousin  himself  has  ob- 
served it,  and  it  grieves  him.  You 
are  no  longer  towards  him  as  you 
once  were.  You  keep  him  at  a  dis- 
tance. You  are  not  lively  as  you 
used  to  be.  You  only  talk  of  things 
serious  enough  to  put  one  asleep." 

"  It  is  nearly  ten  years  since  I  wai 


Madame  Agnes. 


101 


brought  in  such  close  contact  with 
my  cousin  as  now.  I  was  very 
young  then.  I  have  grown  older 
and  more  sensible.  Why  has  not  he 
done  the  same  ?" 

"  Your  sarcasm  is  malicious  and 
unmerited.  Albert  is  a  charming 
fellow." 

"  Oh  !  I  agree  with  you  !  But  this 
very  fact  injures  him  in  my  estima- 
tion. A  charming  fellow  is  one  who 
requires  an  hour  to  dress ;  is  skilled 
in  paying  a  multitude  of  compliments 
he  does  not  mean ;  has  a  petty  mind 
that  only  takes  interest  in  trifles;  in 
short,  a  useless  being  it  is  impossible 
to  rely  on.  When  Albert  came,  he 
seemed  to  be  conscious  of  the  ab- 
surdity of  being  a  charming  fellow. 
He  tried  to  put  on  a  semblance  of 
gravity,  but  it  did  not  last  long. 
Once  more  the  proverb  held  good : 
C/iasser  le  naturel,  il  revient  au  ga- 
lop." * 

"  Wonderful,  my  dear.  You  have 
every  qualification  for  a  devote: 
especially  one  characteristic — mali- 
ciousness. Poor  Albert !  how  you 
have  set  him  off!  Happily,  there  is 
not  a  word  of  truth  in  all  you  have 
said.  He  a  man  on  whom,  you  can- 
not rely !  He  has  a  heart  of  gold." 

"  I  do  not  dispute  the  goodness 
of  his  heart.  I  have  never  put  it  to 
the  proof." 

"  What  a  wicked  insinuation ! 
How  dreadful  it  is  to  always  believe 
the  worst  of  everybody." 

"  Well,  let  it  be  so  :  he  has  a  kind 
heart!  .  .  .  But  is  there  any 
depth  to  him  ?" 

"As  much  as  is  necessary.  This 
would  be  a  sad  world  if  we  were 
always  obliged  to  live  with  moody 
people  like  some  one  I  know  of.  I 
really  believe  he  is  your  beau  ideal." 

"  I  do  not  say  that ;  but,  if  he  is 
really  what  he  appears  to  be,  he 

*  "Nature    when    driven   off,  returns  at  a 
gallop. 


merits  my  good  opinion.      I  wish  all 
1  live  with  resembled  him." 

"  Well  done  !  A  little  more,  and 
you  will  tell  me  he  is  the  realization 
of  all  your  dreams." 

"  I  do  not  know  him  well  enough 
to  accord  him  all  your  words  seem 
to  imply." 

"  At  all  events,  you  know  him 
well  enough  to  take  an  interest  in 
him,  and  much  more  than  would 
suit  your  father.  .  .  .  Your  cou- 
sin even  was  scandalized  at  your  dar- 
ing to  defend  him  against  your  father, 
who  had  good  reason  to  blame 
him." 

"  My  cousin  would  do  well  to  at- 
tend to  his  own  affairs,  and  not 
meddle  with  mine.  If  he  came  here 
to  watch  me,  sneer  at  me,  and  give 
me  advice,  he  had  better  have  re- 
mained in  Paris." 

"  He  came  here  hoping  to  find 
the  friend  of  his  childhood  glad  to 
see  him,  and  ready  to  show  him  the 
affection  he  merits.  Everybody 
does  not  judge  him  as  severely  as 
you  do.  I  know  many  girls  who  ..." 

"  Who  would  be  glad  to  marry 
him  !  Well,  th  *y  may  have  him  !" 

"  That  is  too  much  !  The  son  ot 
my  sister  whom  I  love  with  all  my 
heart !  A  child  whom  I  brought  up 
and  love  almos*  as  much  as  I  do 
you !" 

"  But,  mother,  I  am  not  displeas- 
ed because  you  love  him.  I  do  not 
dislike  him.  I  wish  him  well,  and 
would  do  him  all  the  good  in  my 
power.  But  when  I  make  choice  of 
a  husband,  I  shall  choose  one  with 
qualities  Albert  will  never  possess." 

"  I  have  suspected  it  for  a  long 
time.  Yes;  I  thought  long  ago, 
seeing  the  turn  your  mind  was  tak- 
ing, that,  when  you  married,  it  would 
be  foolishly." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  foolishly  ?" 

"Marrying  a  man  without  proper- 
ty, or  one  with  eccentric  notions, 


102 


Madame  Ames. 


or  some  prosy  creature  of  more  or 
less  sincerity.  I  am  very  much 
afraid  you  are  infatuated  about  an 
individual  who  has  all  these  defects 
combined.  Fortunately  .  .  .  You 
understand  me.  .  .  ." 

"  What,  mother  ?" 

"  Yes ;  we  shall  watch  over  your 
interests,  your  father  and  I,  and  if 
you  are  disposed  to  make  a  foolish 
match,  like  one  that  occurs  to  me, 
we  shall  know  how  to  prevent  it. 
We  shall  not  hesitate  if  obliged  to 
render  you  happy  in  spite  of  your- 
self." 

"  Render  me  happy  ?  ...  At  all 
events,  it  would  not  be  by  forcing 
me  to  marry  Albert." 

"Anyhow,  you  shall  marry  no 
cne  else.  ...  It  is  I  who  say  so, 
and  your  father  will  show  you  he  is 
of  my  opinion." 

Upon  this,  Mme.  Smithson  went 
out,  violently  shutting  the  door  after 
her.  Like  all  people  of  weak  char- 
acter, she  must  either  yield  or  fall 
into  a  rage.  It  was  beyond  her 
ability  to  discuss  or  oppose  anything 
calmly. 

It  was  all  over!  All  her  plans 
were  overthrown!  She  must  bid 
farewell  to  her  dearest  hopes  !  She 
must  no  longer  think  of  retaining 
Albert  and  sending  for  his  mother 
— for  Mme.  Smithson's  desires  went 
as  far  as  that!  Her  dream  was  to 
unite  the  two  families  by  marrying 
Eugenie  and  Albert.  Instead  of 
that,  what  a  perspective  opened  be- 
fore her ! — a  marriage  between  her 
daughter  and  Louis,  which  roused 
all  her  antipathies  at  once!  She 
was  beside  herself  at  the  bare 
thought  of  seeing  herself  connected 
with  a  son-in-law  she  could  not  en- 
dure, and  who  was  no  less  repulsive 
to  Mr.  Smithson.  .  .  .  Her  mater- 
nal heart  was  kind  when  no  one  con- 
tradicted her,  but  there  was  in  its 
depths,  as  often  happens  in  weak  na- 


tures, a  dash  of  spitefulness.  Hav- 
ing returned  to  her  chamber,  Mme. 
Smithson  began  to  reflect.  She  sel- 
dom gave  herself  up  to  reflection, 
and  then  only  when  she  was  trou- 
bled, as  is  the. case  with  some  people. 
As  might  be  supposed,  she  was  too 
excited  to  reflect  advantageously. 

"  Oh !  oh ! "  she  said  to  herself, 
"  Eugenie  dares  resist  me  the  only 
time  I  ever  asked  her  to  obey !  She 
despises  Albert.  She  speaks  scorn- 
fully of  him  !  And  that  is  not  suf- 
ficient :  she  carries  her  audacity  so 
far  as  to  sing  the  praises  of  a  man  I 
detest!  .  .  .  See  what  it  is  to 
be  indulgent  to  one's  children  !  The 
day  comes  when,  for  a  mere  caprice, 
they  tread  under  foot  what  was 
dearest  to  you.  .  .  .  Well,  since 
she  will  do  nothing  for  me,  I  will 
do  nothing  for  her.  .  .  .  She 
rejects  Albert.  I  will  have  the  other 
one  driven  away.  .  .  .  Since 
that  meddler  came,  everything  has 
gone  wrong  here.  .  .  .  What  a 
nuisance  that  man  is !  If  he  had 
not  come  here,  everything  would 
have  gone  on  as  I  wished.  .  .  . 
I  will  go  in  search  of  my  husband. 
It  will  be  easy  to  have  the  engineer 
sent  off,  after  committing  so  many 
blunders.  When  he  is  gone,  we 
shall  have  to  endure  my  daughter's 
ill-humor,  but  everything  comes  to 
an  end  in  this  world.  The  time  will 
come  when,  realizing  her  folly,  Eu- 
genie will  listen  to  reason." 

The  interview  between  Mr.  Smith- 
son  and  his  wife  took  place  a  little 
while  after.  What  was  said  I  never 
knew.  Mme.  Smithson  alluded  to  it 
once  or  twice  at  a  later  day,  but 
merely  acknowledged  she  did  very 
wrong.  The  remembrance  was  evi- 
dently painful,  and  she  said  no 
more. 

Eugenie  at  once  foresaw  this  pri- 
vate interview  between  her  parents. 
The  conversation  she  had  just  had 


Madame  Agftes. 


103 


with  her  mother  only  served  to  en- 
lighten her  more  fully  as  to  the  state 
of  her  feelings.  Forced  to  express 
her  opinion  of  Albert  and  Louis,  she 
had  spoken  from  her  heart.  She 
was  herself  in  a  measure  astonished 
at  seeing  so  clearly  she  did  not  love 
Albert — that  there  was  a  possibility 
of  loving  Louis — that  perhaps  she 
already  loved  him.  .  .  .  And 
she  also  comprehended  more  clearly 
all  the  difficulties  such  an  attachment 
would  meet  with.  Her  mother's  op- 
position had  hitherto  been  doubt- 
ful. It  was  now  certain,  and  the 
consequence  was  to  be  feared. 

"  My  mother  is  so  much  offended," 
she  said  to  herself,  "  that  she  will  try 
to  unburden  her  mind  to  my  father 


at  once,  and  perhaps  influence  him 
against  me.  Before  the  day  is  over, 
she  will  tell  him  all  I  said,  and  the 
thousand  inferences  she  has  drawn 
from  it.  This  interview  fills  me  with 
alarm !  I  wish  I  knew  what  they 
will  decide  upon,  if  they  come  to 
any  decision.  .  .  ." 

Eugenie  tried  in  vain  to  get  some 
light  on  the  point,  but  was  not  able 
to  obtain  much.  The  interview  took 
place.  Mr.  Smithson  seemed  vexed 
and  thoughtful  after  his  wife  left  the 
office.  Mme.  Smithson  went  directly 
to  give  the  porter  orders  to  send  the 
engineer  to  her  husband  as  soon  as 
he  arrived.  Louis  had  sent  word  the 
evening  before  he  should  return  the 
following  day. 


104 


Madame  Agnes. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 


LOUIS   IS   DISMISSED. 


SUCH,  then,  was  the  state  of  affairs 
when  Louis,  after  an  absence  of  ten 
days,  returned  to  his  usual  occupa- 
tion. The  evening  was  somewhat 
advanced  when  he  arrived.  Mr. 
Smithson,  who  was  not  in  the  habit 
of  doing  anything  hastily,  thought  it 
better  to  defer  the  interview  till  the 
following  day.  The  order  to  the 
porter  was  therefore  countermanded, 
and  a  servant  sent  to  inform  Louis 
that  Mr.  Smithson  wished  to  see  him 
the  next  morning.  Louis  was  quite 
startled  at  receiving  so  unexpected  a 
summons. 

"  What  has  happened  ?"  he  said  to 
himself.  "  Can  Mr.  Smithson  be 
displeased  at  my  long  absence  ?  .  .  . 
Has  he  heard  of  Adams'  intended 
conversion  ?  .  .  .  Perhaps  Albert 
has 'obtained  my  dismissal."  There 
was  nothing  cheering  whichever  way 
he  turned.  He  therefore  passed  a 
restless  night.  Fortunately,  he  had 
a  support  that  was  once  wanting : 
he  trusted  in  God,  and  could  pray. 
Prayer  does  not  remove  our  fears, 
but  it  calms  them.  Besides,  what- 
ever misfortune  threatens  the  Chris- 
tian, he  feels  it  will  never  befall  him 
unless  it  is  the  will  of  God.  How- 
ever rude  the  blow,  it  is  even  chang- 
ed into  a  blessing  to  him  that  turns 
with  confidence  to  the  Hand  that 
chastens.  God  is  ever  merciful,  es- 
pecially toward  those  who  truly  hope 
in  him. 

Eugenie,  better  informed  than 
Louis  as  to  what  had  taken  place, 
but  less  pious,  was  at  that  very  hour 
tormented  by  a  thousand  apprehen- 
sions really  justified  by  the  circum- 


stances. She  saw  the  storm  ap- 
proaching, and  was  sure  it  would 
overwhelm  the  one  she  loved.  But 
what  could  she  do?  She  had  already 
got  into  trouble  by  undertaking  his 
defence.  She  could  only  await»in  si- 
lence the  result  which  was  at  hand. 
Then,  perhaps,  she  could  decide  on 
something,  or  wait  still  longer  before 
deciding.  Thwarted  affection  more 
than  any  other  sentiment  in  the 
world  relies  on  the  help  of  time. 

The  next  morning)  Louis  went  to 
Mr.  Smithson's  office  at  the  appoint- 
ed hour.  They  had  not  had  a  special 
interview  for  a  long  time.  Louis 
appeared  as  he  usually  did  at  that 
period — easy  in  his  manners,  but 
cold  and  taciturn.  Mr.  Smithson, 
on  his  side,  had  recovered  his  usual 
calmness.  He  ceremoniously  offered 
the  engineer  a  chair,  and  thus  began 
the  conversation : 

"  Monsieur,  I  have  thought  it 
proper  to  have  an  immediate  expla- 
nation with  you.  Your  long  absence 
has  been  unfortunate  on  many  ac- 
counts. Moreover,  a  fact  has  recent- 
ly come  to  my  knowledge,  or  rather, 
a  series  of  facts  which  have  occurred 
in  my  manufactory,  by  no  means 
agreeable  to  me." 

"  I  acknowledge,  sir,"  replied  Louis, 
"  that  my  absence  was  long — much 
longer  than  I  could  have  wished. 
But  you  would  regard  the  motives 
that  kept  me  away  from  the  mill  as  a 
sufficient  excuse,  if  you  knew  them." 

"  I  am  already  aware  of  them, 
monsieur,  and  admit  that  they  were 
reasonable.  But  as  you  had  a  suffi- 
cient excuse  for  absenting  yourself, 


Madame  Agnes. 


105 


you  did  wrong  not  to  communicate 
it  before  leaving." 

"  It  would  have  been  better  to  do 
so,  I  acknowledge;  but  I  was  sent 
for  in  haste,  and  obliged  to  leave 
without  any  other  notice  than  a  note. 
I  have  since  been  so  absorbed  in 
care  as  to  hinder  me  from  thinking 
of  anything  else." 

"  Very  well,  monsieur,  we  will  say 
no  more  about  that.  There  remains 
the  other  occurrence  that  has  vexed 
me.  You  have  excited  religious  doubts 
in  the  mind  of  a  poor  fellow  of  my 
own  belief  who  is  young  and  inexpe- 
rienced— considerations  that  should 
have  checked  your  propensity  to 
make  proselytes." 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  beg  leave  to 
correct  an  inexactness — quite  invol- 
untary, I  am  sure,  but  a  serious  one 
— in  the  expressions  you  have  just 
made  use  of.  I  made  no  effort  to 
induce  this  man  to  abandon  his  re- 
ligion. He  first  came  to  me,  and 
said  .  .  ." 

"  What  he  said  was  prompted  by 
certain  things  in  your  evening  in- 
structions. You  dwell  on  the  neces- 
sity of  the  Catholic  faith;  you  in- 
fuse doubts  in  the  minds  of  the  work- 
men who  do  not  partake  of  your 
convictions." 

"  I  have  never  directly  attacked 
any  religion." 

"  Your  indirect  attacks  are  more 
dangerous." 

"  What  could  I  do  ?" 

"  Your  course  was  all  marked  out 
beforehand.  Employed  in  an  estab- 
lishment the  head  of  which  belongs 
to  a  different  faith  from  yours  ;  exer- 
cising an  influence  perhaps  benefi- 
cial to  the  workmen  by  means  of 
your  evening-school,  your  library, 
and  your  visits  to  their  houses,  but 
exercising  this  influence  in  my  name 
and  under  my  auspices,  you  ought 
not  to  have  allowed  yourself  to  wan- 
der off  to  religious  subjects." 


"  Excuse  me,  sir,  I  did  not  and 
could  not.  Have  the  goodness  to 
listen  to  my  reasons.  Morality  with- 
out religion  is,  in  my  opinion,  merely 
Utopian.  That  the  Anglican  reli- 
gion sanctions  morality  I  do  not  deny. 
Nor  can  you  deny  that  it  is  sup- 
ported in  a  most  wonderful  manner 
by  the  Catholic  Church — indeed,  my 
conscience  obliges  me  to  say  the 
faith  is  its  most  efficient  support. 
In  talking  to  the  workmen,  who  are 
nearly  all  Catholics,  I  give  them 
moral  instructions  in  the  name  of 
the  belief  they  practise,  or  ought  to 
practise." 

"  That  was  a  grave  error,  as  it 
soon  proved.  In  consequence  of 
your  imprudent  course,  a  weak-mind- 
ed man  was  led  to  the  point  of 
changing  his  religion.  As  I  am  of 
the  same  faith,  this  was  an  insult  to 
me.  Such  a  thing  could  not  occur  in 
my  establishment  without  my  con- 
sent, and  it  was  inadmissible.  If 
Adams  had  persisted,  I  should  have 
discharged  him.  Toleration  has  its 
limits." 

"  Ah  !  he  has  not  persisted  ?" 

"  No  ;  his  fears  were  imaginary, 
and  only  needed  calming.  I  have  used 
no  other  means  of  leading  him  back 
but  persuasion.  Friendly  reasoning 
brought  him  back  to  the  point  where 
he  was  a  month  ago.  Nevertheless, 
I  do  not  wish  a  similar  occurrence 
to  take  place.  We  must  decide  on 
the  course  you  have  got  to  pursue. 
My  wishes  may  be  summed  up  thus  : 
either  you  must  give  up  attempting 
to  exercise  any  influence  over  my 
workmen,  apaii  from  your  official  du- 
ties, or  you  must  bind  yourself  by 
a  promise  never  to  touch  on  reli- 
gious subjects  before  them,  either  in 
public  or  in  private." 

"  Does  this  prohibition  apply 
equally  to  the  Catholic  workmen 
and  those  of  other  religions  ?" 

"  To  all  indiscriminately.     I  must 


io6 


Madame  Agnes. 


say  to  you,  with  my  habitual  frank- 
ness, that  you  manifest  a  zeal  for 
proselyting  that  displeases  me  and 
excites  my  fears." 

"  What  fears,  monsieur  ?" 

"  I  fear  that,  knowingly  or  un- 
knowingly, you  are  the  agent  of  the 
priests.  They  always  seek,  I  know, 
to  insinuate  themselves  everywhere, 
and  to  rule  everywhere.  I  will  not 
tolerate  it  on  my  premises." 

"  You  have  a  wrong  idea  of  the 
Catholic  priesthood,  monsieur.  The 
love  of  power  imputed  to  the  clergy 
it  would  be  difficult  to  prove.  I  am 
not  their  agent,  for  the  reason  that 
they  have  no  agents.  If  I  desire  to 
do  some  good  to  those  around  me, 
this  wish  is  inspired  by  the  Gospel, 
which  teaches  us  in  many  places  to 
do  all  the  good  we  can.  Now,  to 
bestow  money  or  food  on  the  poor, 
to  instruct  the  ignorant  in  human 
knowledge  merely,  is  but  little.  We 
should,  above  all,  give  spiritual  alms. 
The  alms  their  souls  need  is  the 
truth.  .  .  .  For  me,  the  truth  is 
Catholicism." 

f  I  suppose,  then,  monsieur,  with 
such  sentiments,  you  cannot  accept 
the  conditions  I  propose  ?" 

"  No,  monsieur,  I  cannot.  Doing 
good  in  the  way  you  wish  would 
have  but  little  attraction  for  me.  I 
had  the  serious  misfortune  to  live  for 
many  years  as  if  I  had  no  belief. 
Now  I  have  returned,  heart  and 
soul,  to  the  faith,  I  wish  to  make 
myself  truly  useful  to  others,  and  to 
repair,  if  possible,  the  time  I  have 
lost.  I  wish,  therefore,  to  take  the 
stand  of  a  Catholic,  and  not  of  a 
philanthropist — to  be  useful,  not  to 
appear  so." 

"  Monsieur,  I  have  always  had  a 
high  respect  for  people  of  frankness 
and  decided  convictions,  and  they 
entitle  you  to  my  esteem  ;  but,  your 
convictions  being  opposed  to  mine, 
we  cannot  live  together." 


"  I  regret  it,  sir,  but  I  am  of  your 
opinion." 

"  I  assure  you,  monsieur,  that  my 
regret  is  not  less  than  yours.  But" 
though  forced  to  separate  for  grave 
reasons,  there  need  be  no  precipita- 
tion about  it." 

"Just  as  you  please,  monsieur." 

"Well,  you  can  fix  the  day  of 
your  departure  yourself." 

Mr.  Smithson  and  Louis  then  sep- 
arated. Mme.  Smithson  had  suc- 
ceeded! A  quarter  of  an  hour  later, 
she  imparted  the  agreeable  news  to 
Albert. 

"  We  are  rid  of  him  !"  said  Albert. 
"  Well,  for  lack  of  anything  better,  I 
will  content  myself  with  this  semi- 
victory.  I  shall  never  forget,  aunt, 
the  service  you  have  done  me  on 
this  occasion.  I  have  no  hope  now 
of  marrying  Eugenie,  but  I  am  sure 
the  other  will  never  get  her,  and 
that  is  a  good  deal !" 

"  You  give  up  the  struggle  too 
readily,"  said  Mme.  Smithson,  in  a 
self-sufficient  and  sarcastic  tone.  "  I 
am  more  hopeful  about  the  future 
than  you." 

Eugenie  was  likewise  informed 
that  very  morning  of  all  that  had 
taken  place.  Her  mother  took  care 
to  do  that.  The  news,  though  an- 
ticipated, agitated  her  so  that  she 
came  near  betraying  her  feelings. 
But  she  saw  in  an  instant  the  danger 
to  which  she  was  exposing  herself 
Making  an  energetic  effort  to  recov- 
er herself,  she  laughed  as  she  said : 
"  My  cousin  ought  to  be  quite  satis- 
fied. Poor  fellow !  if  he  undertakes 
to  rout  all  he  looks  upon  as  rivals, 
he  is  not  at  the  end  of  his  troubles. 
There  are  a  great  many  men  I  pre- 
fer to  him !" 

While  this  was  taking  place  at 
Mr.  Smithson's,  Louis  was  so  dis- 
tressed that  he  shut  himself  up  in 
his  chamber  to  recover  his  calmness. 
He  came  to  see  me  that  very  eve- 


Madame  Agnes. 


107 


ning,  and  related  all   that  had  oc- 
curred. 

"  I  cannot  blame  Mr.  Smithson," 
he  said.  "  Every  means  has  evident- 
ly been  used  to  prejudice  him  against 
me.  There  is  some  base  scheme  at 
the  bottom  of  all  this.  I  have  quiet- 
ly obtained  information  which  has 
convinced  me  of  Adams'  hypocrisy. 
He  never  intended  to  change  his  re- 
ligion. His  only  aim  was  to  get  me 
into  inextricable  difficulty.  He  has 
succeeded.  It  remains  to  be  discov- 
ered who  prompted  him  to  do  all 
this.  ...  I  have  tried  in  vain  to 
get  rid  of  a  suspicion  that  may  be 
wrong,  for  I  have  no  proofs ;  but  it 
is  continually  recurring  to  me." 

"  And  to  me  also.  Yes,  I  believe 
Albert  is  at  the  bottom  of  it  all." 

"  Well,  that  is  my  idea.  But  what 
can  I  do  ?  Unmask  him  ?  That 
is,  so  to  speak,  impossible.  Even 
suppose  I  succeeded,  it  would  not 
destroy  the  fact  that  Mr.  Smithson 
regards  me  with  distrust,  and  has 
people  around  him  who  depict  me 
in  odious  colors.  And  in  the  end, 
how  could  I  confess  my  love  for  his 
daughter  ?  I  have  lost  my  property 
through  my  own  fault.  I  am  not 
sure  that  Mile.  Eugenie  loves  me. 
Even  if  she  cherished  a  profound 
affection  for  me,  I  have  reason  to 
believe  her  parents  would  regard  it 
with  disapprobation.  Whichever  way 
I  look  at  things,  I  cannot  hide  from 
myself  that  my  hopes  are  blasted ! 
...  It  is  the  will  of  God :  I  submit ; 
but  the  blow  is  terrible." 

"  Poor  friend !  you  remained  too 
long  with  me.  It  was  your  prolong- 
ed absence  that  has  endangered 
everything.  Allow  me,  by  way  of* 
consoling  myself  for  my  regret,  to 
give  you  my  advice.  I  -feel  as  if  it 
\vere  Victor  himself  who  inspires  me : 
he  loved  you  so  much  !  .  .  .  Remain 
at  Mr.  Smithson's  some  days  longer. 
Instead  of  manifesting  any  coolness 


towards  him,  appear  as  you  used  to. 
Everything  is  not  lost  as  long  as  you 
retain  his  esteem.  If  you  meet  with 
Mile.  Eugenie,  do  not  avoid  her. 
The  time  has  come  when  she  ought 
to  know  you  as  you  are.  Yes,  we 
have  at  last  arrived  at  the  decisive 
hour  which  Victor  spoke  of  the  night 
before  he  died.  Mile.  Eugenie  must 
now  be  enabled  to  appreciate  you  as 
you  deserve.  She  must  pity  you.  .  .  . 
She  must  love  you!  If  this  is  not 
the  case,  however  sad  it  will  be  to 
give  up  an  illusion  without  which  it 
seems  impossible  to  be  happy,  re- 
nounce it,  and  acknowledge  without 
shrinking  :  '  She  does  not  love  me ; 
she  never  will  love  me;  she  is  not 
the  wife  God  destines  me.'  But  do 
not  act  hastily.  Believe  me,  if  she 
is  intended  for  you,  whatever  has 
been  done,  nothing  is  lost.  But  it  is 
my  opinion  she  is  intended  for  you." 

These  words  did  Louis  good.  "  I 
hope  you  are  not  deceived,"  said  he, 
"  and  this  very  hope  revives  me.  I 
will  try  to  believe  you  are  right. 
We  will  do  nothing  hastily,  therefore. 
But  do  you  not  think  I  could  now 
venture  to  disclose  my  sentiments  to 
Mile.  Eugenie,  if  I  have  a  favorable 
opportunity,  and  see  it  will  give  no 
offence  ?  One  consideration  alone 
restrains  me — I  fear  being  suspected 
of  seeking  her  hand  from  interested 
motives." 

"  The  time  for  such  suspicions 
is  past.  If  Eugenie  still  cherishes 
them,  it  will  lower  her  in  my  estima- 
tion. She  is  twenty-two  years  of 
age.  She  has  a  good  deal  of  heart 
and  an  elevated  mind,  and  is  capa- 
ble of  deciding  her  own  destiny.  I 
therefore  approve  of  your  plan.  If  she 
loves  you,  she  will  have  the  courage 
to  avow  it  to  her  parents.  If  she 
does  not  love  you,  she  has  sufficient 
courage  to  make  it  evident  to  you." 

"  How  I  wish  the  question  already 
decided !" 


Io8 


Madame  Agnes. 


"  No  youthful  impulsiveness  !  You 
need  more  than  ever  to  be  ex- 
tremely cautious  while  feeling  your 
way.  Your  situation  is  one  of  great 
delicacy  Act,  but  with  delibera- 
tion." 

Such  was  pretty  nearly  the  advice 
I  gave  Louis,  often  stopping  to  give 
vent  to  my  grief,  which  was  as  pro- 


found as  ever.  He  left  me  quite 
comforted.  Though  he  did  not  say 
so,  for  fear  of  being  deceived,  he 
thought  Eugenie  loved  him,  and  be- 
lieved, with  her  on  his  side,  he 
should  triumph  over  every  obstacle. 
When  a  person  is  in  love,  he  clings 
to  hope  in  spite  of  himself,  even 
when  all  is  evidently  lost. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 
ALL  IS  LOST  ! — THE  PROSPECT  BRIGHTENS. 


Louis  spent  several  evenings  in 
succession  with  me.  He  briefly  re- 
lated how  the  day  had  passed,  and 
afterwards  took  up  the  different 
events,  and  enlarged  upon  them. 
He  often  found  enough  to  talk  about 
for  hours  upon  the  sometimes  un- 
grateful theme.  I  can  still  see  him 
sitting  opposite  my  mother  and  my- 
self in  the  arbor  in  the  little  garden 
behind  our  house.  Everything  was 
calm  and  delightful  around  us  in 
those  beautiful  autumn  evenings. 
Louis  alone  was  troubled.  In  vain 
we  tried  to  restore  peace  to  his  soul : 
it  was  gone ! 

I  never  comprehended  so  thor- 
oughly all  the  power  of  love  as  then. 
The  profound  sadness  in  which  I 
was  at  that  time  overwhelmed  ren- 
dered me  inaccessible  to  such  passion- 
ate outbreaks — such  fits  of  elevation 
and  depression  as  Louis  was  then 
subject  to.  I  gazed  at  him  with  a 
cool,  dispassionate  eye,  but  with  the 
affectionate  compassion  with  which 
we  regard  a  friend  who  is  trying  to 
make  himself  unhappy.  I  was  as- 
tonished; sometimes  I  was  even — 
yes,  I  acknowledge  it — irritated  to 
see  how  utterly  he  gave  himself  up  to 
the  passion  he  had  allowed  to  devel- 
op so  rapidly  in  his  heart.  Doubt- 
less my  poor  friend  remained  resign- 
ed to  the  will  of  God,  but  not  so 
completely  as  he  thought.  It  is 
true,  even  when  his  mind  was  appar- 


ently the  most  agitated,  we  felt  that 
piety  was  the  overruling  principle; 
but  then,  what  a  struggle  there  was 
between  the  divine  Spirit,  which  al- 
ways seeks  to  infuse  calmness,  and 
the  gusts  of  passion  that  so  easily 
result  in  a  tempest ! 

Ah !  I  loved  my  husband  too 
sincerely,  and  I  recall  other  loves 
too  pure,  to  dare  assert  that  love  is 
wrong.  But  believe  me.  my  young 
friend,  I  do  not  exaggerate  in  adding 
that,  if  love  is  not  always  censurable, 
it  is  in  danger  of  being  so.  We  are 
told  on  every  hand  that  love  en- 
nobles the  heart  and  tends  to  elevate 
the  mind ;  that  it  is  the  mainspring 
of  great  enterprises,  and  destructive 
of  egotism.  Yes,  sometimes ;  .  .  . 
but  for  love  to  effect  such  things, 
what  watchfulness  must  not  a  person 
exercise  over  himself!  How  much 
he  must  distrust  his  weakness ! 
What  incessant  recourse  he  must 
have  to  God!  Without  this,  the 
love  that  might  ennoble  is  only  de- 
basing, and  to  such  a  degree  as  to 
lead  unawares,  so  to  speak,  to  the 
commission  of  acts  unworthy,  not 
only  of  a  Christian,  but  a  man. 

Allow  me,  my  friend,  continued 
Madame  Agnes,  to  make  use  of  a 
comparison,  common  enough,  but 
which  expresses  my  idea  better  than 
any  other.  Love  is  like  generous 
wine.  It  must  be  used  with  sobriety 
and  caution.  Taken  to  excess,  it 


Madame  Agnes. 


109 


pees  to  the  head,  and  makes  a  fool 
of  the  wisest.  You  are  young.  You 
have  never  loved.  Beware  of  the 
intoxication  to  which  I  allude !  If 
you  ever  do  love,  watch  over  your- 
self; pray  with  fervor  that  God  will 
give  you  the  grace  of  self-coVitrol. 
The  moment  love  becomes  a  passion 
— an  overruling  passion — ah  !  how 
its  victim  is  to  be  pitied !  When 
reason  and  conscience  require  it, 
you  can — I  mean  with  the  divine 
assistance — banish  love  from  the 
heart  where  it  reigns ;  but  believe 
me,  it  will  leave  you  as  an  enemy 
leaves  the  country  it  has  invaded 
— with  fearful  destruction  behind. 
And  first  of  all,  it  destroys  one's 
peace  of  mind.  The  soul  in  which 
passion  has  reigned  continues  to 
bear  marks  of  its  ravages  a  long 
time  after  its  extinction !  .  .  . 

Louis  had  arrived  at  this  deplo- 
rable state";  he  had  not  full  control 
over  his  heart ;  his  happiness  depend- 
ed on  the  success  of  his  love.  Eu- 
genie's image  beset  him  everywhere. 
The  word  is  hard,  I  confess,  but  it  is 
true.  He  attached  undue  importance 
to  whatever  had  the  least  bearing  on 
this  predominant  thought.  One  day, 
he  announced  he  had  seen  Albert 
walking  with  a  melancholy  air.  He 
was  sad,  then.  But  why  should  he 
be  sad  unless  his  cousin  had  treat- 
ed him  coldly  ?  And  Louis  hastily 
added  by  way  of  conclusion  :  "  Mile. 
Eugenie  knows  all  I  have  to  annoy 
me ;  she  follows  me  in  thought,  she 
participates  in  my  sorrows,  she  re- 
pays me  for  them.  .  .  ."  Another 
day  he  had  really  seen  her.  She 
passed  by  his  window,  lovelier  than 
ever,  but  more  thoughtful.  She  was 
doubtless  as  anxious  as  he  to  be 
freed  from  the  suspense  in  which 
they  both  were. 

At  last  he  came  with  important 
news.  He  had  had  the  unhoped- 
for happiness  of  meeting  Eugenie. 


She  was  advancing  towards  him, 
blushing  with  embarrassment,  and 
was  the  first  to  greet  him,  with  an 
expression  so  friendly  as  to  leave  no 
doubt  of  her  sentiments.  He  re- 
turned her  salutation,  but  was  so 
overpowered  with  emotion  that  he 
could  scarcely  speak.  After  some 
words  of  no  importance,  he  said : 
"  I  am  going  to  leave  you,  made- 
moiselle." 

Eugenie  replied  that  she  should 
regret  to  see  him  go.  Then,  as  if 
to  intimate  he  had  enemies  in  the 
house,  she  added :  "  More  than 
one — I  wish  I  could  say  all — will  be 
as  afflicted  as  I  at  your  departure. 
I  refer  to  those  you  have  benefited, 
and  to  whom  you  might  continue  to 
do  good." 

"  Yes,"  said  Louis,  "  it  is  hard  to 
have  to  leave  my  work  incomplete. 
However  limited  it  is,  my  soul  is  in 
it.  But  I  must  not  make  myself  out 
a  better  Christian  than  I  am.  It  is 
not  my  work  I  shall  leave  with  the 
most  regret  .  .  ."  He  dared  not 
complete  the  expression  of  his 
thought. 

Eugenie,  generally  so  self-restrain- 
ed, was  visibly  affected  and  intimidat- 
ed. She  was  about  to  reply,  when 
Mme.  Smithson  suddenly  made  her 
appearance.  It  looked  as  if  she  kept 
watch  over  her  daughter.  When 
she  saw  her  talking  with  Louis,  she 
could  not  conceal  her  annoyance. 
Saluting  him  in  a  freezing,  insolent 
manner,  she  said :  "  Eugenie,  what 
are  you  doing  here  ?  Your  cousin 
is  hunting  everywhere  for  you  to  go 
to  town  with  him  !" 

"  There  is  no  hurry,"  replied  Eu- 
ge"nie,  resuming  her  habitual  coolness 
and  dignity.  She  went  away,  taking 
leave  of  Louis  with  a  visible  air  of 
decided  sympathy. 

This  brief  interview  was  sufficient 
to  render  Louis'  hopes  legitimate. 
I  agreed  with  him  that  Eugenie 


no 


Madame  Agnes. 


would  have  behaved  vtry  differently 
if  she  regarded  him  with  antipathy, 
or  even  with  indifference. 

"  There  is  no  doubt  she  knows  all 
that  has  taken  place,"  said  I  to  my 
friend.  "  If  there  is  any  plot  against 
you,  she  cannot  fail  to  be  aware  of  it, 
or,  at  least,  suspect  it.  Under  such 
circumstances,  the  very  fact  of  her 
showing  you  unmistakable  sympathy 
is  a  sufficient  proof  that  she  loves 
you." 

At  this  time,  an  occurrence  took 
place  that  had  an  unfortunate  effect 
on  me,  and  created  new  difficulties 
in  Louis'  path.  It  was  then  in  the 
latter  part  of  the  month  of  Septem- 
ber. The  summer  had  been  rainy 
and  unpleasant.  The  rains  increas- 
ed in  September,  and  soon  caused  an 
alarming  rise  in  all  the  rivers.  I  was 
then  at  the  end  of  my  stay  in  the 

little  village  of  St.  M ,  where  I 

lived  unknown  to  the  Smithsons. 
Faithful  to  my  request,  Louis  had 
told  no  one  of  my  temporary  resi- 
dence in  the  vicinity. 

Excuse  me  for  giving  you  here 
some  topographical  details,  perhaps 
sorhewhat  difficult  to  comprehend, 
but  necessary  for  you  to  know  in 
order  to  understand  what  follows. 

St.  M is  situated  in  a  charm- 
ing valley.  In  ordinary  weather,  the 
current  of  the  Loire  is  below  the 
level  of  the  valley  through  which  it 
winds  with  a  majestic  sweep.  When 
a  rise  occurs,  the  plain  would  at  once 
be  inundated  were  it  not  protected 
by  a  dike  which  the  water  cannot 
cross.  This  dike  did  not  extend  to 
Mr.  Smithson's  manufactory,  though 

but  a  short  distance  from  St.  M . 

When,  therefore,  the  river  got  very 
high,  the  mill  ran  the  risk  of  be- 
ing inundated.  The  dwelling-house 
alone  was  out  of  danger,  being  on 
an  eminence  beyond  the  reach  of  the 
waters  of  the  Loire,  even  when  it 
joined,  swelled  by  the  junction,  the 


small  stream  that  drove  Mr.  Smith- 
son's  machinery. 

Having  given  you  some  idea  of 
that  region,  I  will  now  resume 
my  story.  One  evening,  then,  to- 
wards the  end  of  my  stay  at  St. 

M ,  Louis  told  me  the  Loire  was 

rising  fast.  He  assured  me,  however, 
before  leaving,  that  there  was  no 
danger.  "  No  matter  how  strong 
or  high  the  current,"  he  said,  "  the 
dike  secures  you  from  all  danger. 
It  is  as  firm  as  a  rock." 

My  friend  was  mistaken.  The 
bank  had  certain  weak  places  which 
the  water  had  undermined  without 
any  one's  being  aware  of  it. 

Towards  eleven  o'clock,  there  was 
a  tremendous  noise  in  every  direc- 
tion. People  were  screaming  and 
rushing  around  the  house  :  the  dike 
had  given  way !  The  water  had 
reached  the  ground  floor.  My 
mother,  my  sister,  and  myself  were 
lodged  on  the  first  story.  The  pro- 
prietor, beside  himself,  and  frighten- 
ed enough  to  alarm  every  one  else, 
came  up  to  tell  us  we  must  make 
haste  to  escape ;  his  house  was  not 
solid;  we  were  in  danger  of  being 
carried  away. 

"  The  water  is  only  rising  slowly," 
he  said.  "  By  wading  two  or  three 
hundred  yards,  we  can  reach  the 
causeway.  There  we  shall  be  safe ; 
for  the  ground  is  firm,  and  the 
causeway  extends  to  St.  Denis. 
The  inundation  cannot  reach  that 
place,  for  it  is  built  on  a  height." 

I  did  not  lose  my  presence  of 
mind  in  the  midst  of  the  alarm. 
Victor's  death  had  destroyed  all 
attachment  to  life.  If  my  mother 
and  sister  had  not  been  in  danger 
as  well  as  myself,  I  should  have  re- 
mained where  I  was,  trusting  in  God, 
not  believing  I  was  under  any  moral 
obligation  to  escape  from  a  house 
which  might  withstand  more  than 
was  supposed ;  as  it  did,  in  fact. 


Madame  Agnes. 


in 


But  my  mother  and  sister  lost  all 
reason,  so  to  speak.  Wild  with  ter- 
ror, they  fled,  and  I  followed  them. 
When  we  got  down  to  the  ground 
floor,  we  found  the  water  had  risen 
to  the  height  of  about  six  inches. 
There  was  a  mournful  sound  in  every 
direction  which  made  us  tremble. 
We  sprang  towards  the  causeway. 
I  was  at  that  time  in  delicate  health. 
I  had  been  suddenly  roused  from 
sle'ep.  The  distance  I  had  to  wade 
through  the  cold  water  had  a  fearful 
effect  on  me.  When  we  reached  the 
causeway,  they  had  to  carry  me  to 
St.  De'nis :  I  was  incapable  of  walking. 

While  we  were  thus  flying  from 
danger,  Louis  committed  a  series  of 
generous  but  imprudent  acts  which 
became  a  source  of  fresh  difficulties 
to  him.  He  was  sitting  alone  in  his 
chamber,  when,  about  half-past  ten, 
he  heard  a  dull  crash  like  a  dis- 
charge of  artillery  at  a  distance. 
He  hastily  ran  down  into  the  court, 
entered  the  porter's  lodge,  and  inquir- 
ed where  the  noise  came  from  that 
had  alarmed  him. 

"  I  do  not  know,  monsieur,"  re- 
plied the  man,  "  but  I  have  an  idea 
that  the  Iev6e  has  given  way.  At  a 
great  inundation  twenty  years  ago, 
the  Loire  made  a  large  hole  in  the 
dike,  which  caused  a  similar  noise. 
I  know  something  about  it,  for  I 
was  then  living  near  .  .  ." 

This  was  enough  to  alarm  Louis, 
and  just  then  a  man  passed  with  a 
torch  in  his  hand,  crying  breathless- 
ly :  "  The  dike  has  given  way  at 

St.  M !  Help!  Quick!  The 

village  will  be  inundated !  " 

These  words  redoubled  Louis' 
terror.  St.  M would  be  inun- 
dated; perhaps  it  was  already.  .  .  . 
I  was  there  ill,  and  knew  no  one  ! 

"  Is  there  any  danger  of  the  water's 
reaching  us?"  asked  Louis  of  the 
porter. 

"The    mill?    Yes,  ...  but  not 


Mr.  Smithson's :  that  is  impossible. 
The  house  stands  twenty  feet  above 
the  river." 

Eugenie  and  her  parents,  then, 
had  nothing  to  fear.  I  alone  was 
in  danger — in  so  great  a  danger  that 
there  was  not  a  moment  to  be  lost. 

"  Go  and  tell  Mr.  Smithson  all 
that  has  happened,"  said  Louis.  "  I 
am  going  away.  I  am  obliged  to. 
I  shall  be  back  in  half  an  hour,  or  as 
soon  as  I  can." 

Of  all  the  sacrifices  Louis  ever 
made,  this  was  the  most  heroic.  In 
fact,  had  he  remained  at  his  post,  he 
might  have  saved  the  machinery, 
that  was  quite  a  loss  to  Mr.  Smith- 
son.  Instead  of  that,  he  hurried  off 
without  any  thought  of  the  construc- 
tion his  enemies  might  put  on  his  de- 
parture. To  complete  the  unfortu- 
nate complication,  Mr.  Smithson  had 
an  attack  of  the  gout  that  very  day. 
When  I  afterwards  alluded  to  his  im- 
prudence in  thus  risking  his  dearest 
interests,  as  well  as  life  itself,  Louis 
replied :  "  I  knew  Eugenie  had  no- 
thing to  fear;  whereas,  you  were  in 
danger.  I  had  promised  Victor  on 
his  death-bed  to  watch  over  you  as 
he  would  himself.  It  was  my  duty 
to  do  as  I  did.  If  it  were  to  do 
over  again,  I  should  do  the  same. 
Did  Victor  hesitate  when  he  sprang 
into  the  water  to  save  me  ?  And  he 
did  not  know  who  I  was." 

The  house  I  had  just  left  was 
about  half  a  league  from  the  mill. 
The  water  was  beginning  to  reach 
the  highway,  though  slowly.  Louis 
kept  on,  regardless  of  all  danger, 
and  arrived  at  our  house  in  feverish 
anxiety.  I  had  been  gone  about  fif- 
teen minutes,  and  the  water  was 
much  higher  than  when  we  left. 
Louis  learned  from  a  man  who  re- 
mained in  a  neighboring  house  that 
I  was  safe :  we  had  all  escaped  by 
the  causeway  before  there  was  any 
danger.  He  added  that  I  must  be 


112 


Madame  Agnes. 


at  St  Denis  by  that  time.  Louis,  re- 
assured as  to  my  fate,  succeeded  in 
reaching  another  road,  more  elevat- 
ed, but  not  so  direct  to  the  mill. 
This  road  passed  just  above  the  Vin- 
ceneau  house.  When  Louis  arrived 
opposite  the  house,  he  saw  the  water 
had  reached  it.  He  heard  screams 
mingled  with  oaths  that  came  from 
the  father,  angry  with  his  wife  and 
daughter.  Having  returned  home  a 
few  moments  before,  the  drunken 
man  was  resisting  the  efforts  of  both 
women  to  induce  him  to  escape. 
Louis  appeared  as  if  sent  by  Provi- 
dence. He  at  once  comprehended 
the  state  of  affairs.  His  look  over- 
awed the  drunken  man,  who  left  the 
house.  They  all  four  proceeded  to- 
ward the  mill.  There  was  no  nearer 
place  of  refuge.  The  first  people 
they  saw  at  their  arrival  were  Du- 
rand,  Albert,  and  some  workmen. 
An  insolent  smile  passed  over  Al- 
bert's face.  He  evidently  suspected 
Louis  of  having  abandoned  every- 
thing for  the  purpose  of  saving 
Madeleine  Vinceneau.  But  he  did 
not  dare  say  anything.  Louis  in- 
timidated him  much  more  than  he 
could  have  wished.  He  resolved, 
however,  to  make  a  good  use  of 
what  he  had  seen.  Louis  at  once 
felt  how  unfortunate  this  combina- 
tion of  circumstances  was,  but  the 
imminent  danger  they  were  in  forced 
him  to  exertion.  It  was  feared  the 
walls  of  the  manufactory  might  give 
way  under  the  action  of  the  water,  if 
it  got  much  higher,  and  it  was  grad- 
ually rising. 

Louis  set  to  work  without  any  de- 
lay. The  workmen,  who  had  has- 
tened from  every  part  of  the  neigh- 
borhood to  take  refuge  at  Mr.  Smith- 
son's,  began  under  his  direction  to 
remove  the  machinery  that  -was  still 
accessible.  They  afterwards  propped 
up  the  walls,  and,  when  these  various 
arrangements  were  completed,  Louis, 


who  had  taken  charge  of  everything, 
occupied  himself  in  providing  tem- 
porary lodgings  for  the  people  driven 
out  by  the  inundation. 

Mme.  Smithson  and  her  daughter 
had  come  down  to  render  assistance. 
The  refugees  were  lodged  in  various 
buildings  on  a  level  with  the  house. 
Louis  would  have  given  everything 
he  possessed  for  the  opportunity  of 
exchanging  a  few  words  with  Euge- 
nie at  once,  in  order  to  forestall  the 
odious  suspicions  Albert  would  be 
sure  to  excite  in  her  mind.  But  he 
was  obliged  to  relinquish  the  hope. 
Mme.  Smithson  and  Albert  followed 
her  like  a  shadow.  Louis  could  not 
approach  her  without  finding  one  or 
the  other  at  her  side.  Overcome 
by  so  fatiguing  a  night,  he  went 
towards  morning  to  talce  a  little  re- 
pose. He  felt  sure  fresh  mortifica- 
tions awaited  him  in  consequence  of 
what  had  just  taken  place,  and  he 
was  right. 

When  he  awoke  after  a  few  hours' 
sleep,  his  first  care  was  to  go  and 
see  Mr.  Smithson.  He  related  what 
he  had  done,  without  concealing 
the  fact  of  his  abandoning  the  mill  to 
go  to  my  assistance.  Mr.  Smithson 
was  suffering  severely  from  the  gout 
He  was  impatient  at  such  a  time  to 
be  on  his  feet,  and  was  chafing  with 
vexation. 

"  I  cannot  blame  you,  monsieur," 
he  said.  "  The  life  of  a  friend  is 
of  more  consequence  than  anything 
else.  Whatever  be  the  material  loss 
I  may  have  to  endure  at  this  time  in 
consequence  of  your  absence,  I  for- 
bear complaining.  But  it  was  un- 
fortunate things  should  happen  so. 
If  I  had  only  been  able  to  move! 
.  .  .  But  no.  .  .  .  You  will 
acknowledge,  monsieur,  that  I  am 
the  victim  of  misfortune.  .  .  .  Did 
you  succeed,  after  all,  in  saving  the 
person  whose  fate  interested  you 
more  than  anything  else  ?  .  .  ." 


Madame  Agnes. 


"  She  had  made  her  escape  before 
my  arrival.  I  hurried  back,  but,  on 
the  way,  a  new  incident  occurred. 
An  unfortunate  family  was  on  the 
point  of  perishing.  I  brought  them 
with  me,  as  there  was  no  nearer  asy- 
lum." 

"  Are  these  people  employed  at 
the  mill  ?" 

"  The  woman  works  here;  her  hus- 
band elsewhere." 

"  What  is  their  name  ?" 

"  Vinceneau." 

"  I  think  I  have  heard  of  them. 
The  father  is  a  drunkard ;  the  mother 
is  an  indolent  woman." 

"  You  may  have  learned  these  facts 
from  Mile.  Eugenie,  who  takes  an  in- 
terest in  the  family,  I  believe.  I  re- 
commended them  to  her." 

"  Was  that  proper  ?  .  .  .  I  have 
every  reason  to  think  otherwise.  .  .  . 
But  it  is  done.  We  will  say  no  more 
about  it.  And  since  I  am  so  inoppor- 
tunely confined  to  my  bed,  I  must 
beg  you  to  continue  to  take  charge 
in  my  place,  watch  over  the  safety  of 
the  inundated  buildings,  provide  for 
the  wants  of  the  people  who  have 
taken  refuge  here,  and,  above  all, 
have  everything  done  in  order." 

Louis  was  uneasy  and  far  from 
being  satisfied.  There  was  a  certain 
stiffness  and  ill-humor  in  Mr.  Smith- 
son's  manner  that  made  him  think 
Albert  had  reported  his  return  to  the 
mill  with  the  Vinceneau  family.  He 
attempted  an  explanation  on  this  del- 
icate subject. 

"  Man  Dieu  /  you  seem  very  anx- 
ious about  such  a  trifling  affair,"  said 
Mr.  Smithson.  "  It  appears  to  me 
there  is  something  of  much  more  im- 
portance to  be  thought  of  now.  .  .  . 
It  is  high  time  to  try  to  remedy  the 
harm  done  last  night.  .  .  ." 

Louis  felt  that,  willing  or  not,  he 
must  await  a  more  propitious  time. 
He  went  away  more  depressed  than 
ever. 


The  whole  country  around  was  in- 
undated. I  was  obliged  to  send  a 
boat  for  news  concerning  my  young 
friend,  and  give  him  information 
about  myself.  The  unfortunate  peo- 
ple who  had  taken  refuge  at  Mr. 
Smithson's  were  at  once  housed  and 
made  as  comfortable  as  possible. 
It  happened  that  Durand  and  some 
others  were  put  in  the  same  building 
with  the  Vinceneau  family.  Nothing 
occurred  the  first  day  worth  relating. 
Louis  watched  in  vain  for  an  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  and  speaking  to 
Eugenie.  He  only  saw  her  at  a  dis- 
tance. The  next  morning — O  un- 
hoped-for happiness  ! — he  met  her  on 
her  way  to  one  of  the  houses  occupied 
by  the  refugees.  She  looked  at  him 
so  coldly  that  he  turned  pale  and  his 
limbs  almost  gave  way  beneath  him. 
But  Eugenie  was  not  timid.  She  had 
sought  this  interview,  and  was  deter- 
mined to  attain  her  object. 

"Whom  have  you  put  in  that 
house  ?"  she  asked,  pointing  to  the 
one  assigned  to  the  Vinceneaus, 
which  was  not  two  steps  from  the 
small  building  occupied  by  Louis 
himself. 

"  The  Vinceneau  family  and  some 
others,"  replied  Louis. 

At  that  name,  Eugenie's  lips  con- 
tracted. An  expression  of  displea- 
sure and  contempt  passed  across  her 
face.  Then,  looking  at  Louis  with  a 
dignity  that  only  rendered  her  the 
more  beautiful,  she  said  :  "  Then  you 
still  have  charge  of  them  ?  I  thought 
you  gave  them  up  to  me." 

"I  have  had  nothing  to  do  with 
them  till  within  two  days,  mademoi- 
selle. It  was  enough  to  know  you 
took  an  interest  in  their  condition." 
He  then  briefly  related  all  that  had 
taken  place  the  night  of  the  inunda- 
tion, and  ended  by  speaking  of  the 
letter  I  had  written  to  relieve  his 
anxiety.  He  finished  by  presenting 
the  letter  to  Eugenie,  under  the  pre- 


Madame  Agnes. 


text  of  showing  her  the  reproaches 
I  addressed  him.  I  wrote  him  that, 
before  troubling  himself  about  me, 
he  ought  to  have  been  sure  he  was 
not  needed  at  Mr.  Smithson's. 

Eugenie  at  first  declined  reading 
the  letter.  Then  she  took  it  with  a 
pleasure  she  endeavored  to  conceal. 
Before  reading  it,  she  said  : 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me  your 
friend  was  at  St.  M ?" 

"  I  have  been  greatly  preoccu- 
pied for  some  time,  and  I  seldom 
see  you,  mademoiselle.  It  was  in  a 
manner  impossible  to  tell  you  that 
my  poor  friend  had  come  here  to 
be  quiet  and  gain  new  strength  in 
solitude." 

"  I  should  have  been  pleased  to 
see  her."  So  saying,  Eugenie,  with- 
out appearing  to  attach  any  impor- 
tance to  it,  read  my  letter  from  be- 
ginning to  end. 

Thus  all  Albert  and  Mme.  Smith- 
son's  calculations  were  defeated. 
There  is  no  need  of  my  telling  you 
the  inference  Louis'  enemies  had 
drawn  from  the  interest  he  had  man- 
ifested in  the  Vinceneau  family. 

"  He  left  everything  to  save  them, 
or  rather,  to  save  that  girl,"  said 
Mme.  Smithson.  "  He  would  have 
let  us  all  perish  rather  than  not  save 
her." 

My  being  at  St.  M ,  and  my 

letter,  threw  a  very  different  light  on 
everything.  Thenceforth,  Louis,  dis- 
missed by  her  father,  and  calumniat- 
ed by  her  mother  and  Albert,  was, 
in  Eugenie's  eyes,  a  victim.  And  he 


had  risked  his  own  life  to  save  that 
of  his  friend.  It  is  said  that  noble 
hearts,  especially  those  of  women, 
regard  the  role  of  victim  as  an  attrac- 
tive one. 

When  Eugenie  left  Louis,  theie 
was  in  the  expression  of  her  eyes, 
and  in  the  tone  of  her  voice,  some- 
thing so  friendly  and  compassionate 
that  he  felt  happier  than  he  had 
for  a  long  time.  ...  To  obtain 
this  interview,  Eugenie  had  been 
obliged  to  evade  not  only  her  mo- 
ther's active  vigilance,  but  that  of 
her  cousin  and  Fanny.  This  vigi- 
lance, suspended  for  a  moment,  be- 
came more  active  than  ever  during 
the  following  days.  It  was  impossi- 
ble to  speak  to  Louis ;  but  she  saw 
him  sometimes,  and  their  eyes  spoke 
intelligibly.  .  .  . 

The  water  receded  in  the  course 
of  a  week.  Louis  profited  thereby  to 
come  and  see  me,  and  make  me  a 
sharer  in  his  joy.  I  was  then  some- 
what better.  I  passed  the  night  of 
the  inundation  in  fearful  suffering, 
but  felt  relieved  the  following  day. 
My  dreadful  attack  of  paralysis  did 
not  occur  till  some  weeks  afterwards. 
I  little  thought  then  I  had  symptoms 
of  the  seizure  that  has  rendered  my 
life  so  painful. 

The  refugees  were  still  living  at 
the  manufactory,  the  Vinceneau  fam- 
ily among  them.  Louis  had  scarce- 
ly returned  to  his  room  that  night, 
when  he  heard  a  low  knock  at 
his  door,  and  Madeleine  Vinceneau 
presented  herself  before  him. 


Madame  Agnes. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 
"  Fais  ce  que  dois,  advienne  que  pourra  !" 


Louis  was  thunderstruck  at  see- 
ing Madeleine.  He  had  not  spoken 
a  word  to  her  for  several  days,  and 
intended  to  maintain  a  reserve  full 
of  circumspection  towards  her.  His 
connection  with  the  family  had  twice 
given  rise  to  the  most  malevolent 
interpretations,  and  he  by  no  means 
wished  a  similar  vexation  to  be  re- 
peated. He  received  the  young  girl 
with  a  coldness  that  was  almost  rude. 

"  What  do  you  wish  ?"  said  he. 

"  To  speak  with  you,  monsieur. 
But  I  fear  I  have  come  at  the  wrong 
time.  I  will  return  at  a  later  hour." 

"  Not  later,  but  elsewhere." 

"  Why  ?"  asked  Madeleine,  with 
naivete. 

"  But  what  have  you  so  urgent  to 
tell  me  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Nothing  concerning  you,  mon- 
sieur; it  only  relates  to  myself.  I 
am  so  unhappy.  ...  If  I  ventured 
to  come  here  at  this  hour,  it  is  be- 
cause I  feared  being  seen  talking 
with  you.  I  have  a  secret  to  con- 
fide to  you  which  my  parents  alone 
are  aware  of.  If  they  knew  I  told 
you,  I  do  not  know  what  they  would 
do  to  me." 

"  Where  are  your  parents  now  ?" 

"At  my  cousin's,  a  league  off. 
They  will  not  be  back  for  several 
hours." 

Madeleine  was  so  overwhelmed 
with  grief  and  anxiety  that  Louis  was 
filled  with  compassion.  He  motioned 
for  her  to  be  seated  on  a  lounge  be- 
fore his  desk,  and  then  said : 

"  Well,  my  good  Madeleine,  what 


has  happened  ?  Tell  me  your  trou- 
bles. If  in  my  power  to  remove 
them,  it  shall  soon  be  done.  What 
can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

"You  know  Durand,  the  over- 
seer ?" 

"  Yes,  yes !  .  .  ."  said  Louis, 
frowning  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
knows  more  than  he  expresses. 

"  He  and  my  father  have  become 
intimate,  I  know  not  how  or  why, 
within  a  few  weeks  —  since  you 
stopped  coming  to  our  house.  He 
often  came  before  the  inundation, 
and  paid  me  a  thousand  absurd  com- 
pliments. I  made  no  reply  to  his 
silly  speeches,  but  they  seemed  to 
please  my  parents.  The  first  moment 
I  set  eyes  on  that  man,  he  inspired 
me  with  fear.  He  looks  so  bold — 
so  false !  And  besides  .  .  ." 

"  Besides  what  ?  Madeleine,  I 
insist  on  your  telling  me  everything." 

"  Well,  he  tried  every  way  to  make 
us  believe  you  are  ...  I  dare  not 
tell  you.  .  .  ." 

"  Go  on,  child.  Nothing  would 
astonish  me  from  Durand.  I  know 
he  hates  me." 

"He  says  you  are  a  hypocrite 
a — Jesuit,  a  dangerous  man.  He 
told  my  father  you  were  going  tc 
leave  the  mill,  and  seemed  to  boast 
of  being  the  cause  of  it." 

"  I  suspected  it,"  said  Louis  to 
himself.  "  Adams  was  only  Du- 
rand's  tool.  Oh !  what  deceit !" 

"  Is  it  true,  then,  that  you  are  go- 
ing away  ?"  asked  Madeleine  anx- 
iously. 


n6 


Madame  Agnes. 


11  Quite  true,  my  child." 

"  Oh  !  what  a  hateful  man  !  I 
was  right  in  detesting  him  !  Since 
we  have  been  here  living  in  the 
same  house  with  him,  he  has  tor- 
mented me  more  than  ever.  He 
says  he  wishes  to  marry  me.  .  .  ." 

"  Has  he  dared  go  that  far  ?" 

"  Yes ;  and,  what  is  worse,  my  pa- 
rents have  given  their  consent.  Du- 
rand  tells  them  he  has  money  laid 
up ;  that  he  is  earning  a  good  deal 
here,  and  is  willing  to  live  with  them 
and  provide  for  the  support  of  the 
whole  family.  .  .  .  But  I — I  have  a 
horror  of  that  man !  There  is  nothing 
disagreeable  I  do  not  say  to  him.  I 
have  told  him  plainly  I  would  never 
consent  to  marry  him.  My  parents 
were  terribly  angry  at  this ;  my  father 
beat  me,  and  my  mother  loaded  me 
with  abuse.  They  ended  by  saying, 
if  I  persisted  in  refusing  Durand, 
they  would  find  a  way  of  making  me 
change  my  mind.  This  scene  took 
place  last  evening.  What  shall  I 
do?  O  God!  what  shall  I  do?  .  .  ." 
So  saying,  Madeleine  burst  into 
tears. 

Louis  remained  silent.  He  was 
reflecting.  Self  whispered  :  "  Leave 
this  girl  to  her  unhappy  fate.  Do  not 
embark  in  another  undertaking  that 
will  get  you  into  fresh  trouble  and 
may  endanger  everything — both  Eu- 
g6nie's  love  for  you,  and  your  repu- 
tation itself.  This  unfortunate  girl 
has  already  been  the  cause  of  more 
than  one  sad  moment ;  take  care  she 
does  not  at  last  ruin  you,  and  like- 
wise compromise  herself.  .  .  ." 

But  such  selfish  promptings  had  no 
power  over  a  heart  so  generous  and 
upright  as  that  of  Louis.  Besides, 
he  had  learned  such  shocking  things 
about  Durand  that,  if  he  did  not  re- 
veal them  in  order  to  save  Madeleine, 
he  would  regard  himself  guilty  of  a 
crime,  and  not  without  reason.  After 
some  moments  of  silent  reflection,  all 


incertitude  ceased.  He  had  decided 
on  the  course  to  pursue. 

"  How  old  are  you,  my  child  ?" 
said  he. 

"  I  am  in  my  twenty-first  year." 

"  Well,  you  have  hitherto  devoted 
yourself  generously  to  the  interests 
of  your  parents.  They  have  now 
made  this  impossible.  There  is  no 
choice  in  the  matter.  You  must  leave 
them." 

"  I  have  thought  of  it.  But  where 
could  I  go  ?  I  have  no  place  of 
refuge,  now  my  aunt  is  dead." 

"  I  will  give  you  a  note  to  a  lady 
who  lives  in  the  city.  I  may  as  well 
say  at  once  it  is  my  sister.  She  will 
take  care  of  you,  and  get  you  a  place 
as  a  chamber-maid,  if  she  does  not 
keep  you  herself." 

"  Oh !  how  kind  you  are !  .  '.  . 
You  revive  my  courage.  When  can 
I  go?" 

"  When  you  please." 

"  To-morrow  ?" 

"  Yes,  to-morrow  morning." 

"  And  who  will  inform  my  pa- 
rents ?" 

"  You  yourself.  Write  a  line,  and 
leave  it  with  some  one  you  can  trust, 
to  be  delivered  a  few  hours  after  you 
are  gone.  You  can  tell  your  parents 
you  are  going  to  seek  a  situation  in 
the  city  in  order  to  escape  from 
Durand.  Promise  to  be  a  credit  to 
them,  to  love  them  always,  and  even 
to  render  them  assistance;  and  I 
will  say  more  to  them  when  the  pro- 
per time  comes.  Above  all,  I  will 
tell  them  what  Durand  really  is.  ... 
Thank  God,  my  child,  that  he  en- 
ables you  to  escape  that  man's 
snares.  .  .  ." 

Everything  was  done  as  agreed 
upon  by  Louis  and  Madeleine.  The 
latter  left  for  town  the  next  morning. 
Her  parents  were  not  informed  of 
her  departure  till  about  noon.  They 
immediately  notified  Durand. 

"  The  engineer  has  had  a  hand  in 


Madame  Agnes. 


117 


this,"  said  he  to  Vinceneau  and  his 
wife.  "  He  shall  pay  for  it." 

"  What  makes  you  think  he  had 
anything  to  do  with  it  ?"  asked  Vin- 
ceneau. 

"  Your  daughter  went  to  see  him 
last  evening.  .  .  .  My  police  told 
me." 

"  How  shall  we  be  revenged  ?" 

"  By  telling  everybody  what  this 
Tartuffe  is.  I  will  see  to  it.  Ah ! 
he  induces  young  girls  to  run  away 
without  any  one's  knowing  where 
they  are  gone  !  That  is  rather  too 
bold !" 

Durand  watched  for  an  opportu- 
nity of  speaking  to  Albert,  with 
whom  he  kept  up  daily  communica- 
tion. He  told  him  what  had  occur- 
red, adding  calumnious  suppositions 
that  may  be  imagined.  Albert,  de- 
lighted at  the  news,  went  at  once  to 
tell  his  aunt.  It  was  near  dinner- 
time. Mme.  Smithson  said  to  her 
nephew :  "  Wait  till  we  are  at  table, 
then  relate  this  story  without  appear- 
ing to  attach  any  importance  to  it. 
If  I  am  not  very  much  mistaken,  this 
will  be  a  death-blow  to  that  trouble- 
some creature.  Only  be  prudent,  and 
do  not  begin  till  I  make  a  sign.  There 
are  times  when  your  uncle  takes  no 
interest  in  the  conversation,  no  mat- 
ter what  is  said.  Poor  Eugenie  will 
blush  well  to  hear  of  such  infamous 
conduct,  for  she  loves  him.  It  is  hor- 
rible to  say,  but  so  it  is.  Since  I 
caught  them  talking  together  the 
other  day,  I  have  had  no  doubt 
about  it.  Besides,  as  you  have  re- 
marked, she  grows  more  and  more 
reserved  toward  us,  while,  on  the 
contrary,  she  has  redoubled  her  ami- 
ability towards  her  father.  I  really 
believe,  if  the  foolish  fellow  had  not 
compromised  himself,  she  would  in 
the  end  have  got  the  better  of  us.  Her 
father  is  so  indulgent  to  her !  .  .  . 
But  after  what  has  taken  place,  there 
can  be  no  more  illusion !  She  will 


perceive  the  worth  of  her  hero !  .  .  . 
It  must  be  acknowledged  there  is  no 
alternative  !  Her  romance  has  end- 
ed in  a  way  to  make  her  ashamed  of 
it  for  ever.  .  .  .  You  will  see,  Albert, 
she  will  end  by  thinking  it  too  great 
an  honor  to  be  your  wife." 

"  Too  great  an  honor !  Hum ! 
hum  !  It  will  be  well  if  she  consents. 
Eugenie  has  more  pride  than  any 
girl  I  ever  saw.  Humbled,  she  will 
be  unapproachable.  Believe  me, 
aunt,  we  must  be  cautious  in  availing 
ourselves  of  this  advantage." 

They  took  seats*  at  table  at  six 
o'clock  as  usual.  Mr.  Smithson  ap- 
peared thoughtful  and  out  of  humor, 
but  that  often  happened.  Eugenie 
was  no  less  serious.  Very  little  was 
said  till  the  dessert.  Albert  evident- 
ly longed  to  let  fly  the  shaft  he  held 
in  reserve  against  Louis.  Mme. 
Smithson  was  quite  as  impatient  as 
he,  but  could  not  find  a  propitious 
opportunity.  However,  her  bitter- 
ness against  Louis  prevailed.  To- 
wards the  end  of  dinner,  she  made 
Albert  an  imperceptible  sign,  as  much 
as  to  say :  "  Proceed,  but  be  pru- 
dent !" 

Albert  assumed  as  indifferent  an 
air  as  possible,  and  in  an  off-hand 
way  began  his  attack  after  this  man- 
ner: 

"  There  is  trouble  in  the  refugees' 
quarter  to-day." 

Mme.  Smithson  looked  up  with  aa 
air  of  surprise  at  the  news.  Mr. 
Smithson  and  Eugenie  remained  im- 
passible. 

"  The  Vinceneaus  are  in  great  com- 
motion," continued  Albert.  "  Their 
daughter  has  run  away." 

"  A  poor  set — those  Vinceneaus," 
muttered  Mr.  Smithson. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Albert,  "  a  poor 
set  indeed!  But  this  time  I  pity 
them.  Their  daughter  has  gone  off, 
and  no  one  knows  where  she  has 
gone." 


n8 


Madame  Agnes. 


"  Why  did  she  leave  them  ?"  asked 
Eugenie. 

"  She  and  her  parents  had  a  vio- 
lent quarrel  day  before  yesterday, 
but  not  the  first;  they  say  this 
Madeleine  is  more  amiable  in  ap- 
pearance than  in  reality.  Anyhow, 
there  is  something  inexplicable  about 
her.  It  seems  she  was  to  have  been 
married ;  then  she  refused  to  be.  Re- 
sult :  anger  of  the  parents,  obstinacy 
of  the  daughter.  All  that  is  known 
besides  this  is  that  she  went  all 
alone  to  consult  the  engineer  last 
evening.  Duraad  and  another  work- 
man saw  her  go  to  his  room.  This 
morning  she  disappeared,  leaving 
word  she  intended  to  get  a  situation, 
no  one  knows  where;  she  has  not 
thought  it  proper  to  leave  her  ad- 
dress. .  .  ." 

While  listening  to  this  account, 
Eugenie  turned  pale,  then  red,  and 
finally  almost  fainted.  Mr.  Smith- 
son  perceived  the  sad  effect  of  the 
story  on  her,  and  was  filled  with  in- 
expressible sorrow.  Heretofore  he 
had  refused  to  believe  in  the  possi- 
bility of  her  loving.  Louis ;  but  now 
he  tould  no  longer  doubt  it.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  acknow- 
ledged his  wife  had  shown  more 
penetration  than  he — more  prudence. 
The  look  that  rested  on  Eugenie 
was  not  of  anger,  however,  but  full 
of  affection  and  anxiety.  He  loved 
her  too  much  not  to  pity  her,  even 
though  he  blamed  her. 

Eugenie,  with  characteristic  en- 
ergy, recovered  her  self-possession  in 
a  few  moments.  Suspicions  of  a 
stronger  and  more  painful  character 
than  any  she  had  yet  had  struggled 
with  the  love  in  this  proud  girl's 
heart. 

Albert  was  overjoyed,  but  con- 
cealed his  satisfaction  under  a  hypo- 
critical air  of  compassion.  Continu- 
ing the  subject,  he  said  the  workmen 
were  all  indignant  at  Madeleine's 


flight.  "  The  engineer  has  done 
well  not  to  show  himself  since  the 
girl's  departure  was  known,"  he  add- 
ed. "  He  would  have  exposed  him- 
self to  a  public  manifestation  of  rather 
a  disagreeable  nature.  And  I  do  not 
see  who  could  defend  him " 

"  He  could  defend  himself,  if  he  is 
innocent,"  thought  Eugenie.  .  .  . 
Then  another  idea  occurred  to  her : 
"  But  if  he  has  plans  he  cannot  yet  ac- 
knowledge, .  .  .  if  he  loves  this  Ma- 
deleine, ...  ah !  how  he  will  have 
deceived  me !  .  .  .  No !  it  is  impos- 
sible !  .  .  .  And  yet  it  is  true  he  has 
disappeared  :  I  have  not  seen  him  . 
to-day.  .  .  ." 

By  an  unfortunate  coincidence, 
Louis  had  been  obliged  to  come  to 
see  me  that  day.  I  had  been  taken 
with  a  terrible  pain  in  all  my  limbs — 
the  first  symptoms  of  my  paralytic 
seizure.  My  mother,  frightened  be- 
yond all  expression,  sent  a  messenger 
to  our  poor  friend,  conjuring  him  to 
come  with  all  possible  speed. 

"  Enough  !"  said  Mr.  Smithson. 
"The  subject  does  not  please  me. 
I  do  not  like  to  be  deceived,  as  I 
have  so  often  been  before.  It  seems 
to  me  there  is  some  mistake  here.  I 
shall  ascertain  the  truth.  But  this 
shall  be  my  care.  Let  it  be  under- 
stood that  no  one  but  myself  is  to 
make  any  inquiries  about  the  affair. 
No  tittle-tattle !" 

They  retired  to  the  salon  a  few 
moments  after.  Albert  offered  Eu- 
genie his  arm.  She  refused  it,  as  if 
to  show  him,  if  Louis  were  driven 
from  her  heart,  he,  Albert,  should 
never  have  a  place  there.  She  seat- 
ed herself  at  the  piano,  and  played  a 
succession  of  pieces  with  great  effect. 
Her  ardent  nature  required  the  relief 
of  some  outward  manifestation.  Foi 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  blushed 
before  her  parents — before  the  cousin 
she  despised.  But  the  torture  she 
suffered  from  her  wounded  pride  was 


Madame  Agnes. 


119 


not  the  most  painful.  She  had  loved 
Louis — she  loved  him  still,  as  a  wo- 
man of  her  intelligence  and  energy 
alone  could  love — that  is  to  say,  to 
excess.  And  now  she  is  forced  to 
a&k  herself:  is  an  affection  so  pure  met 
only  with  hypocrisy,  or  at  least  an 
indifference  but  too  easy  to  under- 
stand. Swayed  between  love  and 
contempt ;  by  turns  ashamed  of  her- 
self, then  drawing  herself  up  with 
pride,  she  would  have  given  ten  years 
of  her  life  to  be  able  at  once  to  solve 
the  doubt  that  caused  her  so  much 
suffering. 

While  the  poor  girl  was  thus  aban- 
doning herself  to  the  most  distress- 
ing anxiety,  without  any  consolation, 
Mme.  Smithson  and  Albert  were 
talking  in  a  low  tone  near  the  fire- 
place. They  appeared  dissatisfied. 


"  The  affair  has  begun  badly,"  said 
Albert.  "  One  would  think  my  uncle 
resolved  to  thwart  me  in  everything. 
.  .  .  Why  could  he  not  intimate  to 
that  fellow  that  there  is  no  necessity  of 
his  remaining  any  longer  ?  .  .  .  That 
is  what  I  hoped  and  what  I  expect- 
ed !  He  has  certainly  done  'enough 
to  deserve  being  treated  in  such  a 
way.  .  .  .  Instead  of  that,  my  uncle  is 
going  to  undertake  an  investigation  ! 
...  I  wage  this  arrant  piece  of  craft 
will  find  some  way  of  making  himself 
out  innocent." 

"  That  would  be  rather  too  much  !" 
said  Mme.  Smithson.  "  You  are 
right :  we  must  despatch  business, 
or  all  is  lost.  I  will  talk  to  your 
uncle  this  very  evening,  and  make 
every  effort  to  prevent  their  meet- 
ing. .  .  ." 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 


A  VILLAIN  S   REVENGE. 


The  whole  family  were  still  in  the 
salon,  when,  about  half-past  eight, 
they  heard  an  unusual  noise  out  of 
doors,  and  people  seemed  to  be 
moving  about  in  the  darkness.  In  a 
few  moments,  a  servant  entefed  and 
said  a  few  words  to  Mr.  Smithson  in 
a  low  tone.  He  immediately  rose 
and  started  to  go  out;  but,  before 
leaving  the  room,  he  said :  "  I  shall 
not  be  gone  long.  I  wish  you  all 
to  remain  here  till  my  reurn." 

Eugenie  continued  to  drum  furi- 
ously on  the  piano  ;  then,  weary  of 
this  monotonous  employment,  she 
took  a  book,  and  pretended  to  read. 
Mme.  Smithson  and  Albert  were  far 
from  being  at  ease.  Triumphant  as 
they  were,  they  stood  in  awe  of  Eu- 
genie. To  keep  themselves  in  coun- 
tenance, they  began  a  game  of  cards. 

What  was  Mr.  Smithson  doing 
meanwhile  ?  He  forbade  his  ser- 
vants mentioning  a  word  of  what 
had  happened,  which  they  were 


aware  of  as  well  as  he.  Sure  of 
being  obeyed,  he  went  directly  to 
Louis'  apartment.  Entering  the 
room,  he  found  him  lying  all  dressed 
on  his  bed,  groaning  and  unablt  to 
utter  a  word.  A  bloody  handker- 
chief was  tied  across  his  forehead,  as 
if  he  had  received  a  severe  wound. 
At  a  sign  from  Mr.  Smithson,  the 
servant  dismissed  all  the  men — hands 
at  the  mill — who  had  brought  the 
engineer  to  his  room.  When  they 
were  gone,  the  servant  removed 
the  handkerchief  that  concealed  the 
wound.  It  was  a  long  gash,  which 
was  still  bleeding.  Louis  opened 
his  eyes,  and  put  his  hand  to  his 
neck,  as  if  there  was  another  wound 
there.  The  servant  untied  his  cra- 
vat. The  unfortunate  young  man's 
neck,  in  fact,  bore  marks  of  violence. 
The  servant  seemed  greatly  af- 
fected at  the  sight.  He  placed  the 
wounded  man  in  as  comfortable  a 
position  as  he  could,  bandaged  hii 


120 


Madame  Agnes. 


wounds,  and  tried  to  revive  him  with 
eau-de-Cologne.  Louis  came  to  him- 
self a  little,  and,  extending  his  hand, 
pressed  that  of  the  good  fellow  who 
was  tending  him  so  kindly.  Mr. 
Smithson  stood  a  few  steps  from  the 
bed,  looking  on  as  calmly  as  if  gaz- 
ing at  some  unreal  spectacle  in  a 
theatre.  No  one  would  have  divined 
his  thoughts  from  the  expression  of 
his  countenance;  but  at  the  bottom 
of  his  heart  there  was  a  feeling  of  ani- 
mosity against  Louis,  which  was 
scarcely  lessened  by  the  sight  of  his 
sufferings.  At  that  moment,  he  be- 
lieved Louis  guilty,  and  what  had 
happened  only  a  chastisement  he 
merited.  Nevertheless,  he  sent  in 
haste  for  a  physician,  who  arrived  in 
a  short  time.  Louis'  clothes  were 
removed,  and  his  wounds  dressed 
with  the  greatest  care.  The  relief  he 
experienced,  the  warmth  of  the  bed, 
and  the  skill  of  the  attentive  physi- 
cian, produced  a  speedy  and  favor- 
able reaction.  He  recovered  the 
perfect  use  of  speech,  and,  address- 
ing those  around  him  with  an  at- 
tempt at  a  smile,  he  said : 

"  They  have  brought  me  to  a  sad 
condition." 

"  You  will  get  over  it,"  replied  the 
doctor. 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Smithson  coldly. 

"  It  is  a  long  story  to  tell,"  re- 
plied Louis.  "  I  have  not  recovered 
from  the  violent  concussion,  and  am 
still  in  severe  pain;  but  I  will  en- 
deavor to  tell  you  how  it  happened. 
It  is  time  for  you  to  know  the  truth 
about  many  things,  Mr.  Smithson. 
What  is  your  opinion  of  Durand  ?" 

"  He  is  a  capable  hand,  but  some- 
what unaccountable." 

"  Well,  I  have  found  him  out.  .  .  . 
He  is  a  dangerous  man.  The  condi- 
tion you  see  me  in  is  owing  to  him." 

"  What  induced  him  to  ill-treat 
you  in  this  way  ?" 


"  He  has  hated  me  for  a  long 
time,  though  secretly.  Before  I 
came  here,  he  did  somewhat  as  he 
pleased,  and  was  guilty  of  many 
base  acts.  He  robbed  you  in  many 
ways — saying  he  had  paid  the  work- 
men money  that  was  never  given 
them,  and  having  an  understanding 
with  one  and  another,  in  order  to 
cheat  you.  I  found  out  his  dishon- 
est trafficking,  and  put  a  stop  to  it. 
This  was  the  origin  of  his  dislike." 

"  Why  did  you  not  notify  me  at 
once  ?" 

"  My  silence  proceeded  from  mo- 
tives of  delicacy.  You  will  recollect 
the  man  came  here  with  excellent 
recommendations ;  he  was  a  Pro- 
testant ;  and  you  liked  him,  and 
thought  more  of  him  than  of  many 
others." 

"  That  is  true.     Go  on." 

"  I  afterwards  discovered  he  lent 
money  on  security.  My  reproaches 
offended  him  still  more.  Within  a 
short  time,  he  has  become  intimate 
with  that  drunken  Vinceneau  and  his 
indolent  wife,  and,  since  the  inunda- 
tion drove  them  here  for  shelter,  he 
has  permanently  installed  himself  in 
their  house.  He  only  did  this  to 
annoy  their  poor  daughter,  Made- 
leine, with  his  audacious  attentions. 
The  girl  was  indignant.  Young  as 
she  is,  she  felt  there  was  something 
vile — I  may  say  criminal — in  the 
depths  of  his  deceitful  soul.  But  her 
father  and  mother  countenanced  him. 
They  hoped  a  son-in-law  so  much 
richer  than  they  would  enable  them 
to  give  themselves  up  to  their  shameful 
inclinations — the  husband  to  drink, 
and  the  wife  to  idleness.  Madeleine 
was,  therefore,  ordered — and  in  such 
a  way ! — to  accept  Durand's  offer. 
She  came  to  consult  me  on  the  sub- 
ject, and  said  the  man  inspired  her 
with  invincible  horror.  On  the  other 
hand,  her  parents  threatened  her  with 
the  worst  treatment  possible  if  she 


Madame  Agnes. 


121 


resisted  their  orders — a  treatment  al- 
ready begun.  Now,  I  had  learned 
only  a  few  days  previous  the  follow- 
ing particulars  respecting  Durand  : 
His  name  is  not  Durand,  but  Renaud. 
He  is  not  a  Protestant,  but  a  Catho- 
lic, if  such  a  man  can  be  said  to  have 
any  religion.  His  fine  recommenda- 
tions did  not  come  from  his  employ- 
ers; he  wrote  them  himself.  He  is 
not  a  bachelor,  but  is  married,  and 
the  father  of  three  children.  Be  good 
enough  to  open  my  desk,  Mr.  Smith- 
son.  .  .  .  You  will  find  a  letter  from 
Durand's  wife,  in  which  all  these 
facts  are  stated  with  a  minuteness  of 
detail,  and  such  an  accent  of  truth, 
that  there  can  be  no  doubt  after 
reading  it.  It  was  addressed  to  the 
cure,  begging  him  to  threaten  Du- 
rand— or  rather,  Renaud — with  the 
law  if  he  did  not  send  for  his  wife 
and  children.  They  are  dying  of 
want  at  Lille,  whence  he  fled  without 
saying  anything  to  them;  They  lost 
all  trace  of  him  for  a  year,  and  only 
heard  of  him  again  about  six  months 
ago." 

Mr.  Smithson  opened  Louis'  desk, 
and  took  out  the  letter.  The  details 
it  contained  were,  in  truth,  so  nume- 
rous and  so  precise  that  there  could 
be  no  doubt  they  really  referred  to  the 
so-called  Durand. 

"  What  an  infamous  impostor !" 
exclaimed  he,  as  he  finished  the  let- 
ter. "  Continue  your  account,  mon- 
sieur. I  am  eager  to  know  how  this 
sad  affair  terminated." 

"  My  friend,  Mme.  Barnier,"  con- 
tinued Louis,  "  has  not  been  able  to 
leave  St.  Denis,  where  .she  took  re- 
fuge at  the  time  of  the  inundation. 
A  violent  affection  of  the  muscular 
system  obliges  her  to  keep  her  bed. 
I  learned  this  morning  from  a  letter 
that  she  was  worse,  and  wished  to 
see  me  immediately.  I  went  to  St. 
Denis.  On  my  way  back  this  evening 
on  foot,  I  met  Durand  not  three  hun- 


dred steps  from  the  mill.  I  cannot 
say  he  was  waiting  for  me,  but  am 
inclined  to  think  so.  When  he  per- 
ceived me  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
a  gleam  of  fury  lighted  up  his  fea- 
tures. I  had  no  weapon  of  defence. 
He,  as  usual,  carried  a  strong,  knotty 
cane  in  his  hand. 

" '  Where  is  Madeleine  ?'  said  he. 

"  '  At  my  sister's,'  I  replied.  In 
fact,  I  had  sent  her  there  with  a  let- 
ter of  recommendation. 

"  '  Why  did  you  send  her  away  ?' 

" '  Because  I  wished  to  withdraw 
her  from  your  criminal  pursuit.' 

" '  Criminal  ?  ;  .  ;  How  was  my 
pursuit  criminal  ?  I  wished  to  marry 
her.' 

"  'You  have  not  the  right.' 

"  '  What  do  you  say  ?  I  haven't  a 
right  to  marry  ?' 

" '  No,  you  have  not.  You  are 
married  already.' 

" '  It  is  false.' 

" '  I  have  the  proof  in  my  pos- 
session— a  letter  from  your  wife.' 
Then  I  told  him  what  I  knew  of  his 
history,  and  ended  thus :  '  You  have 
hitherto  gone  from  one  crime  to 
another.  It  is  time  for  you  to  reform. 
Promise  to  begin  a  new  life,  and  I 
pledge  my  word  to  keep  what  I  know 
to  myself.' 

"  '  I  promise — humble  myself — and 
to  you !  .  .  .  There  is  one  man  too 
many  in  the  world,  you  or  I.  By 
heaven  !  this  must  be  ended.' 

"  I  heard  no  more.  Before  I 
could  ward  off  the  blow,  he  hit  me, 
causing  the  wound  you  see  on  my 
head.  Then  he  continued  striking 
me  with  diabolical  fury.  I  could  not 
defend  myself,  but  called  for  help. 
Two  men  heard  me  in  the  mill,  and 
came  running  with  «all  their  might. 
As  soon  as  Durand  saw  them,  he  fled 
I  know  not  where.  I  beg  he  may 
not  be  pursued ;  the  crime  is  too  se- 
rious." 

Louis  had  ended  his  account. 


122 


Madame  Agnes. 


"  Monsieur,"  said  Mr.  Smithson, 
"  you  have  been  strangely  unfortu- 
nate since  you  came  here.  It  has  all 
arisen  from  a  misunderstanding.  I 
distrusted  you.  I  was  wrong.  You 
have  a  noble  heart.  I  see  it  now. 
What  you  have  said  explains  many 
things  I  did  not  understand.  You 
have  been  odiously  calumniated, 
monsieur  !  Now  that  we  have  come 
to  an  understanding,  promise  not  to 
leave  me.  I  will  go  further  :  forgive 
me." 

Louis  was  affected  to  tears,  and 
could  not  reply. 

"  And  now,  monsieur,"  said  Mr. 
Smithson,  "  can  I  render  you  any 
service  ?" 

"  I  wish  my  father  and  sister  to  be 
cautiously  informed  of  what  has  hap- 
pened to  me." 

"  I  will  go  myself,"  said  Mr.  Smith- 
son,  "  and  give  them  an  account 
of  your  unfortunate  adventure.  You 
may  rely  on  my  making  the  commu- 
nication with  all  the  discretion  you 
could  wish.  Will  to-morrow  be  soon 
enough  ?" 

"  Oh !  yes.  To  go  this  evening 
would  made  them  think  me  in  great 
danger." 

They  continued  to  converse  some 
minutes  longer,  -then  Mr.  Smithson 
returned  to  the  house.  When  he  en- 
tered the  salon,  he  found  the  family 
exceedingly  anxious.  They  suspect- 
ed something  serious  had  occurred, 
but  the  servants  had  not  dared  com- 
municate the  slightest  particular.  Mr. 
Smithson  had  forbidden  it,  and  in  his 
house  every  one  obeyed  to  the  letter. 

"  M.  Louis,  .  .  ."  began  he.  At 
this  name,  Eugenie  turned  pale.  She 
still  loved  the  engineer,  and  waited 
with  dread  for  h.er  father  to  allay  the 
suspicions  •  so  hateful  to  her,  or  to 
confirm  them. 

"  M.  Louis  came  near  being  killed. 
He  was  only  wounded,  and  will  soon 
be  well  again." 


"  What  happened  to  hiru  ?"  cried 
Eugenie  eagerly. 

Mrne.  Smithson  and  Albert  ex 
changed  a  look  of  intelligence.  Mr. 
Smithson  related  the  facts  he  had 
just  learned  from  Louis.  In  propor- 
tion as  he  unveiled  the  infamy  of 
Durand's  conduct,  and  revealed  the 
nobility  of  Louis'  nature,  an  expres- 
sion of  joy,  mingled  with  pride,  dawn- 
ed on  Eugenie's  face.  It  was  easy  to 
read  the  look  she  gave  her  mother 
and  Albert — a  look  of  mingled  hap- 
piness and  triumph  which  seemed  to 
say  :  "  He  is  innocent;  it  is  my  turn 
to  rejoice !"  Mr.  Smithson,  always 
sincere  and  ready  to  acknowledge  an 
error,  ended  his  account  by  express- 
ing his  regret  at  having  been  hard, 
suspicious,  and  unjust  towards  Louis. 
"  I  shall  henceforth  regard  him  with 
the  highest  respect;  and  I  hope,  if  any 
of  you,  like  me,  have  been  deceivei 
about  him,  that  my  words  and  exam- 
ple will  suffice  to  correct  your  mis- 
take." 

Mme.  Smithson  and  Albert  pre- 
tended not  to  hear  his  last  words ; 
but  they  struck  Eugenie  particularly. 
Had  she  dared,  she  would  have 
thrown  her  arms  around  her  father's 
neck,  and  given  vent  to  her  joy  and 
gratitude.  She  was  obliged  to  re- 
frain, but  her  sentiments  were  so  leg- 
ible in  her  face  that  no  one  could 
mistake  them.  You  will  not  be  sur- 
prised to  hear  that  Mme.  Smithson 
and  her  nephew  cut  a  sad  figure. 

A  few  moments  after,  they  all  re- 
tired to  their  rooms.  As  Eugenie 
embraced  her  father,  she  could  not 
refrain  from  timidly  asking  him  one 
question :  "  IF  it  really  true  that  M. 
Louis'  life  is  not  in  danger,  father  ? 
It  would  be  very  sad  for  so  good  a 
man  to  be  killed  by  a  villain  on  our 
own  premises." 

"  There  is  no  danger,  my  child, 
I  assure  you,"  replied  Mr.  Smithson 
kindly.  He  then  tenderly  kissed  his 


Madame  Agnes. 


123 


daughter  for  the  second  time.  This 
mark  of  affection  on  the  part  of  so 
cold  a  man  had  a  special  value — I 
might  even  say,  a  special  significance. 
"  This  voluntary  expression  of  love 
from  my  father,"  said  Eugenie  to 
herself,  "  shows  he  is  aware  of  all  I 
have  suffered,  and  that  he  sympathiz- 
es with  me."  And  she  went  away 
full  of  joy  and  hope.  Once  more  in 
her  chamber,  she  reflected  on  all  the 
events  pf  the  last  few  days.  Louis 
had  been  calumniated  many  times 
before,  and  she  believed  him  guilty  ; 
but  he  had  always  come  out  of  these 
attacks  justified,  so  that  the  very  cir- 
cumstances which  at  first  seemed 
against  him  turned  to  his  benefit. 
What  had  happened  during  the 
evening  now  at  an  end  threw  a  new 
light  on  the  state  of  affairs.  Louis 
was  an  upright  man.  He  was  sin- 
cere, and  the  persecution  he  had  un- 
dergone made  him  so  much  the  wor- 
thier of  being  loved.  For  the  first 
time,  Eugenie  ventured  to  say  to 
herself  boldly  :  "  Yes,  I  love  him  !" 
Then  she  prayed  for  him.  At  length 
a  new  doubt — a  cruel  doubt — rose  in 
her  heart :  "  But  he,  does  he  love 
me  ?"  immediately  followed  by  an- 
other question :  if  Louis  loved  her, 
would  her  father  consent  to  receive 
him  as  a  son-in-law  ?  .  .  .  He  had 
won  his  esteem — that  was  a  good 
deal ;  but  Mr.  Smithson  was  not  a 
man  to  be  led  away  by  enthusiasm. 
.  These  questions  were  very  embarrass- 


ing. Nor  were  they  all.  Eugenie 
foresaw  many  other  difficulties  also  : 
Louis  was  poor ;  he  was  a  Catholic, 
not  only  in  name,  but  in  heart  and 
deed.  His  poverty  and  his  piety 
were  two  obstacles  to  his  gaining 
Mr.  Smithson's  entire  favor.  These 
two  reasons  might  prevent  him  from 
ever  consenting  to  give  Louis  his 
daughter's  hand.  Such  were  Euge- 
nie's thoughts.  Reflection,  instead 
of  allaying  her  anxiety,  only  served 
to  make  it  more  keen. 

"  One  hope  remains,"  thought  she, 
"  but  that  is  a  powerful  one  :  my  fa- 
ther loves  me  too  well  to  render  me 
unhappy.  I  will  acknowledge  that 
the  happiness  of  my  life  depends  on 
his  decision." 

At  that  same  hour,  Louis,  in  the 
midst  of  his  sufferings,  was  a  prey  to 
similar  anxiety.  But  he  had  one  ad- 
vantage over  Eugenie.  "  It  is  not 
without  some  design,"  he  said,  "  that 
Providence  has  directed  everything 
with  such  wonderful  goodness.  I  trust 
that,  after  giving  me  so  clear  a 
glimpse  of  happiness,  I  shall  at  last 
be  permitted  to  attain  the  reality." 

This  was  by  no  means  certain,  for 
the  designs  of  God,  though  ever 
merciful,  are  always  unfathomable. 
No  one  can  tell  beforehand  how 
things  will  end.  But  we  must  par- 
don a  little  temerity  in  the  heart  of  a 
lover.  It  is  sad  to  say,  but  even  in 
the  most  upright  souls  love  over- 
powers reason. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
THE  BETROTHAL. 


The  next  morning,  Eugenie  had 
news  that  surprised  her,  but  seemed 
a  happy  augury:  her  cousin  had 
suddenly  decided  to  go  home !  His 
departure  was  announced  by  Fanny. 
As  long  as  things  remained  unde- 
cided, and  Albert  had  some  hope, 
Fanny  had  appeared  cross  and  dis- 


satisfied. But  now  she  made  her 
appearance  as  she  used  to  be — smil- 
ing, chatty,  and  agreeable,  without 
any  one's  knowing  why.  The  artful 
soubrette  felt  it  was  high  time  to 
change  her  tactics.  In  consequence 
of  the  blunders  Albert  had  commit- 
ted, and  Eugenie's  marked  antipa- 


124 


Madame  Agnes. 


thy  to  him,  he  would  henceforth  be 
blotted  out  of  the  list  of  mademoi- 
selle's admirers.  If,  therefore,  Fan- 
ny wished  to  reinstate  herself  in  her 
mistress'  good  graces,  if  she  wished 
to  make  sure  of  that  cherished  asy- 
lum— the  object  of  all  her  aims  for 
the  last  ten  years — she  must  pave  the 
way  by  her  subserviency  to  her  fu- 
ture patrons — Eugenie  and  the  hus- 
band of  her  choice,  whoever  he  might 
be.  With  a  keener  eye,  or  at  least 
bolder,  than  Eugenie's,  Fanny  had 
no  doubt  it  would  be  Louis. 

With  the  assurance  of  those  people 
who  make  others  forget  their  faults 
by  appearing  to  be  ignorant  of  them 
themselves,  Fanny  went  with  a  single 
bound  over  to  the  side  of  the  man 
she  regarded  as  a  personal  enemy  the 
night  before.  Eugenie  perceived  the 
sudden  tack.  It  greatly  amused  her, 
though  she  pretended  not  to  see  it. 

"  Where  is  my  father  ?"  she  asked 
Fanny.' 

"  Monsieur  is  going  to  town  with 
M.  Albert,  and  also  to  notify  Mr. 
Louis'  family  of  the  misfortune  that 
has  happened  to  him — a  painful  er- 
rand. M.  Louis  has  a  father  who  is 
greatly  attached  to  him,  and  a  sister 
who  is  still  fonder  of  him — a  very 
amiable  woman,  with  a  strong  mind." 

"  Ah !  indeed ;  where  did  you  learn 
these  particulars  ?" 

"  Here  and  there.  Mademoiselle 
knows  the  good  God  has  given  me 
ears  to  hear  with." 

"  And  especially  a  tongue  that  can 
ask  questions,  Fanny." 

Eugenie  went  down  to  the  break- 
fast-room, where  she  found  the  rest 
assembled.  Mr.  Smithson  wore  a 
cheerful  air.  Albert  was  in  an  ill- 
humor,  which  he  badly  concealed 
under  pretended  elation.  Mme. 
Smithson  appeared  anxious,  but  Eu- 
genie saw  with  delight  that  she  was 
more  affectionate  towards  her  than 
she  had  been  of  late. 


A  policeman  from  St.  M passed 

by  the  window. 

"  What  is  that  policeman  here  for  ?" 
inquired  Eugenie. 

"  We  had  to  search  Durand's  room, 
my  child,"  replied  Mr.  Smithson. 
"  The  man  cheated  me  in  a  shame- 
ful manner.  I  have  obtained  posi- 
tive proofs  of  it.  We  found  letters 
from  his  wife  and  other  people  which 
prove  him  utterly  heartless  and  base 
— in  short,  one  of  the  most  dangerous 
men  I  ever  saw." 

Mr.  Smithson  and  Albert  started  a 
short  time  after.  The  parting  between 
the  two  cousins  was  not,  as  you 
may  suppose,  very  affecting.  As  Mr. 
Smithson  entered  the  carriage,  he 
said  to  his  wife :  "  Go  and  tell  M. 
Louis  I  am  on  my  way  to  his  father's. 
I  intend  to  bring  him  back  with  me, 
and  hope  the  sister  will  accompany 
him ;  for  no  one  knows  so  well  how 
to  take  care  of  him,  or  to  do  it  so  ac- 
ceptably. Do  not  delay  giving  him 
this  information ;  it  will  do  him  more 
good  than  a  visit  from  the  doctor." 

Mme.  Smithson  made  a  brief  reply, 
in  which  a  slight  confusion  and  a 
lingering  antipathy  were  perceptible. 
The  commission  was  evidently  dis- 
agreeable, but  she  obeyed  her  hus- 
band. As  soon  as  We  was  out  of 
sight,  she  proceeded  towards  the 
wounded  man's  room.  Eugenie  re- 
turned to  the  house.  She  expected 
her  mother  would  be  back  in  a  few 
minutes,  and  was  greatly  surprised 
when  a  quarter  of  an  hour — half  an 
hour — nearly  a  whole  hour  passed 
without  her  returning.  She  became 
extremely  anxious.  She  feared  her 
mother  had  found  Louis  in  too  dan- 
gerous a  state  to  be  left  till  Mr. 
Smithson  returned.  "  Perhaps,"  she 
also  thought — "  perhaps  mother  and 
M.  Louis  are  having  a  painful  expla- 
nation. Mother  is  very  kind,  but  at 
times  she  is  dreadful !  Exasperated 
by  my  cousin's  abrupt  departure,  I 


Madame  Agnes. 


125 


fear  she  may,  under  the  impulse  of 
vexation  or  animosity,  say  something 
painful  to  the  poor  sick  fellow.  .  .  ." 
And  at  this,  she  gave  her  imagination 
full  course. 

At  length  Mme.  Smithson  reap- 
peared. Eugenie  refrained  from 
questioning  her,  but  she  looked  as  if 
she  would  read  the  bottom  of  her 
mother's  heart. 

"  We  had  rather  a  long  talk,"  said 
Mme.  Smithson,  without  appearing 
to  suspect  how  anxious  her  daughter 
had  been.  "  He  is  a  good  young 
man,  that  M.  Louis;  a  little  serious, 
a  little  too  gloomy,  but  that  seems 
to  please  certain  people !  .  .  .  He  is 
delighted  because  his  sister  is  com- 
ing  " 

"  I  am  not  surprised,"  said  Eu- 
genie. 

The  conversation  was  kept  up  for 
some  time  in  this  discreet  tone,  nei- 
ther of  them  wishing  to  let  the  other 
see  what  she  really  thought.  It 
seemed  to  Eugenie,  however,  that 
her  mother,  instead  of  manifesting 
any  irritation  against  Louis,  was 
making  an  effort  to  reconcile  herself 
to  him.  Had  she  then  an  idea  he 
might  become  her  son-in-law,  and 
did  she  wish  to  accustom  herself  to  a 
prospect  but  recently  so  contrary  to 
her  views  ?  .  .  . 

The  carriage  arrived  an  hour  after. 
Eugenie  felt  somewhat  agitated  at 
the  thought  of  meeting  Louis'  father 
and  sister.  "  Shall  I  like  them  ?  Will 
they  like  me  ?"  she  said  to  herself,  as 
she  proceeded  resolutely  to  the  door 
to  receive  them.  She  first  shook 
hands  with  Aline.  The  poor  girl  was 
pale  with  anxiety,  but  her  very  anx- 
iety increased  her  beauty.  She  made 
a  conquest  of  Eugenie  at  the  first 
glance.  Her  thoughtful  air,  the  dis- 
tinction of  her  manners,  her  intelli- 
gent and  animated  countenance,  were 
all  pleasing  to  her.  Eugenie  felt,  if 
Aline  did  not  become  her  friend,  it 


would  be  because  she  did  not  wish 
to.  Their  interview  lasted  only  a  few 
minutes;  then  Aline  followed  Mr. 
Smithson,  who  had  taken  her  father's 
arm,  to  Louis'  room.  Eugenie  was 
also  pleased  with  M.  Beauvais.  He 
had  a  cold,  stern  air,  but  so  had  Mr. 
Smithson  himself. 

Quite  a  series  of  incidents  of  no 
special  importance  occurred  after  this, 
which  it  would  take  too  much  time 
to  relate.  I  must  hasten  to  end  my 
story,  as  you  wish,  I  fear. 

A  week  after,  Mr.  Smithson 's  house 
was  en  fete  to  celebrate  Louis'  conva- 
lescence. Both  families  assembled 
on  this  occasion.  Aline,  Eugenie, 
and  Mme.  Smithson,  who  had  again 
become  the  excellent  woman  she  was 
when  we  first  knew  her,  formed  a 
trio  of  friends  such  as  is  seldom 
found.  And  one  would  have  taken 
Mr.  Smithson  and  Louis'  father  for 
two  old  friends  from  boyhood,  so 
familiarly  did  they  converse.  They 
seemed  to  understand  each  other  at 
half  a  word. 

"  What  a  delightful  reunion  /"  said 
Mr.  Smithson  when  they  came  to  the 
dessert.  "  It  is  hard  to  think  we 
must  all  separate  to-morrow.  But  it 
is  settled  that  you,  M.  Louis,  Vre  to 
come  back  as  soon  as  you  are  perfect- 
ly well." 

"  I  give  you  my  word,"  said  Louis; 
"and  promise  also  never  to  leave 
you  from  the  time  you  see  me  again." 
"  I  hope  you  will  carry  out  that 
intention.  We  will  never  separate 
again.  But  you  are  young,  and  it  is 
more  difficult  for  a  young  man  to 
foresee  what  may  occur." 

"As  far  as  it  depends  on  me,  I 
can."  As  Louis  said  these  words,  he 
glanced  at  Eugenie,  who  sat  opposite. 
His  look  seemed  to  say  :  "  There  is 
the  magnet  that  will  keep  me  here 
for  ever !"  Eugenie  blushed.  Every 
one  noticed  it. 

"  It  is  useless  for  you  to  say  that," 


126 


Madame  Agnes. 


said  Mr.  Smithson.  "  I  shall  always 
be  in  fear  of  your  escape  till  you  are 
positively  bound  here.  But  how 

shall  we  bind  you  to  St.  M ? 

There  is  one  way,"  and  Mr.  Smith- 
son  smiled  as  he  spoke ;  "  which  has 
occurred  to  the  parents;  will  the 
children  consent  ?" 

Eugenie  and  Louis  looked  at  each 
other.  In  the  eyes  of  both  beamed 
the  same  joy. 

"  The  children  make  no  reply,  .  .  ." 
resumed  Mr.  Smithson. 

"  Pardon  me,"  exclaimed  Louis. 
"  I  dare  not  be  the  first  to  answer." 

"  Silence  implies  consent,"  replied 
Mr.  Smithson.  "  If  Eugenie  is  not 
of  your  mind,  let  her  protest  against 
it.  Otherwise  I  shall  give  my  own 
interpretation  to  her  silence." 

"  I  do  not  protest,"  said  Eugenie, 
unusually  intimidated. 

"  Oh  !  what  strange  lovers  !"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Smithson.  "  I  think  we 
shall  have  to  tell  them  they  love 
each  other." 

"  Perhaps  we  are  already  aware  of 
it,"  said  Louis.  "At  least,  I  have 
been  for  a  long  time." 

"  And  have  you  not  confessed  it  to 
each  other  ?" 

"  I  riad  forbidden  myself  to  do  so." 

"  Louis,  you  have  a  noble  heart," 
said  Mr.  Smithson.  "  To  keep  si- 
lence in  such  a  case  requires  a  cour- 
age amounting  to  heroism.  But  I 
have  remarked  that  the  heroic  quali- 
ties you  have  given  so  many  proofs 
ot  since  you  came  here  always  turn 
to  the  advantage  of  those  who  con- 
tinue under  their  influence.  This 


proves  that  God,  even  in  this  world, 
rewards  the  deeds  of  the  upright 
much  oftener  than  is  supposed. 
Doubtless  they  are  also  recompensed 
in  heaven,  but  they  often  have  on 
earth  a  foretaste  of  what  awaits  them 
hereafter." 

Such  was  the  betrothal  of  my  two 
friends.  The  next  day,  Louis  came 
to  town,  in  order  to  obtain  the  medi- 
cal aid  necessary  to  complete  his 
cure.  I  had  returned  myself  a  few 
days  previous.  I  cannot  tell  you 
with  what  pleasure  I  received  him, 
and  learned  the  welcome  news  from 
the  lips  of  the  fiancte  herself,  who 
greatly  pleased  me  at  the  very  first 
interview,  and  never  gave  me  any 
reason  to  change  my  opinion.  My 
intercourse  with  them  and  Aline — 
three  choice  spirits — was  so  delight- 
ful that  it  sustained  me  in  the  midst 
of  the  terrible  trials  through  which  I 
was  then  passing.  My  grief  for  the 
death  of  my  husband  had  grown 
more  calm,  but  his  memory  followed 
me  constantly  and  everywhere. 

In  addition  to  my  mental  troubles, 
I  underwent  physical  sufferings  that 
were  sometimes  excruciating.  And 
I  was  filled  with  a  dread  that  was 
still  worse.  I  trembled  at  the  thought 
I  might  always  be  a  burden  to  my 
poor  mother  and  sister.  I  had  not 
fully  learned  that,  when  God  sends  a 
trial,  he  likewise  gives  the  strength  to 
bear  it,  and  some  way  of  mitigating 
it.  How  many  times  I  have  since 
realized  this !  God  comes  to  the  aid 
of  those  whose  will  is  in  conformity 
with  his. 


CONCLUSION. 


The  marriage  of  Lbuis  and  Eu- 
genie took  place  a  month  afterwards. 
For  them,  and  I  might. almost  say  for 
myself,  it  was  the  beginning  of  a  life 
of  serene  happiness  that  lasted  six 
years.  The  better  these  two  souls 


became  acquainted,  the  more  they 
loved  each  other.  They  were  always 
of  the  same  mind  on  all  subjects 
whatever,  particularly  when  there  was 
a  question  of  doing  good.  Eugenie, 
under  her  husband's  influence,  be 


Madame  Agnes. 


127 


came  in  a  few  months  a  woman  of 
angelic  piety.  The  good  works 
Louis  had  previously  begun  under 
such  unfavorable  circumstances  were 
resumed  at  once,  and  carried  on  with 
a  zeal  and  prudence  that  had  the 
happiest  influence  on  the  whole  coun- 
try round.  St.  M was  trans- 
formed into  a  Christian  republic. 
The  wicked — to  be  found  everywhere 
— were  few  in  number,  and,  instead 
of  ruling  over  the  good,  considered 
themselves  fortunate  in  being  tole- 
rated. Ah !  if  it  were  thus  every- 
where !  .  .  .  Every  summer,  I  went 
to  pass  three  months  with  my  friends. 
I  was  happier  there  than  I  can  ex- 
press. It  was  delightful  to  behold  a 
family  so  admirably  united,  so  be- 
loved and  respected  everywhere 
around !  Mr.  Smithson  himself  was 
hardly  to  be  recognized.  The  sight 
of  the  wonders  effected  by  his  son-in- 
law  and  daughter  destroyed  one  by 
one  all  his  prejudices  against  the 
true  religion.  .  .  : 

Alas !  the  happiness  of  this  world 
is  seldom  of  long  duration.  Eugenie 
had  been  married  six  years,  and  was 
the  mother  of  two  children,  when  she 
was  seized  with  a  severe  illness  that 
endangered  her  life.  She  got  over 
it,  however,  but  remained  feeble  and 
languid.  The  physicians  insisted  on 
her  residing  permanently  in  the  South. 
A  large  manufactory  being  for  sale 
on  the  delightful  shores  of  the  Medi- 
terranean, a  few  leagues  from  Mar- 
seilles, on  the  picturesque  and  charm- 
ing road  leading  from  the  Phocaean 
City  to  Toulon,  Louis  purchased  it, 
and  they  all  went  away ! 

No  words  could  describe  the  sadness 
they  experienced  at  leaving  so  dear 

a  spot  as  St.  M ,  where  they  were 

greatly  beloved.  They  likewise  re- 
gretted separating  from  me.  When 
I  saw  them  start,  I  felt  almost  as  dis- 
tressed as  I  was  at  the  death  of  my 
husband ;  but  I  did  not  tell  them  so, 


for  fear  of  increasing  their  regret. 
After  they  went  to  Provence,  they  had 
one  more  year  of  happiness  ;  but  the 
amelioration  that  took  place  in  Eu- 
genie's health  did  not  last  any  longer. 
She  died  three  months  later. 

Some  time  after,  Louis  came  to 
seek  consolation  from  his  sister  and 
me.  His  very  aspect  made  us  heart- 
sick. His  grief  was  beyond  the 
reach  of  any  human  consolation.  It 
would  have  been  wrong  had  he  vol- 
untarily given  himself  up  to  it.  But, 
no  ;  he  struggled  against  it.  It  pre- 
vailed, however,  in  spite  of  himself, 
as  phthisis  resists  every  remedy  and 
wears  the  sufferer  to  the  grave.  We 
represented  to  him  the  good  he 
might  still  effect,  and  reminded  him 
he  had  one  child  left  to  bring  up  ; 
the  other  being  dead.  He  listened 
kindly  to  our  representations,  and 
said  he  had  had  more  happiness  on 
earth  than  he  merited ;  that  he  sub- 
mitted to  the  divine  will,  and  resign- 
ed himself  to  live  as  long  as  God 
wished.  But  all  this  was  said  with  a 
dejection  and  involuntary  weariness 
of  everything,  that  was  no  good  sign. 
Louis  was  one  of  those  souls,  all 
sensibility,  who  die  as  soon  as  their 
hearts  receive  a  deep  wound.  Had 
he  been  an  unbeliever,  he  would  have 
taken  his  own  life,  or  died  of  grief  in 
a  few  months.  Religion  sustained 
him  four  years  longer. 

During  that  time,  his  friends  al- 
ways found  him  resigned.  He  be- 
came more  devout  than  ever,  and 
more  zealous  in  doing  good.  A 
sudden  illness  at  length  carried  him 
off.  The  physicians  asserted  that 
he  might  have  recovered  if  grief 
had  not  undermined  his  constitution, 
once  so  robust.  When  he  died,  he 
left  his  son  to  be  brought  up  by 
his  sister.  God  gave  him  the  hap- 
piness, before  his  death,  of  seeing  his 
father-in-law  enter  the  bosom  of  the 
church. 


128 


Madame  Agnes. 


Madame  Agnes  had  finished  her 
story. 

"  Such,  my  friend,  is  the  history 
of  my  life,"  said  she.  "  It  is  not 
very  entertaining,  I  confess,  but  I 
think  it  instructive.  All  who  had  a 
part  in  it  suffered,  but  they  never 
lost  courage.  Such  a  misfortune 
could  not  happen  to  them,  because 
they  only  expected  from  life  what  it 
has  to  give — many  days  of  trial,  min- 
gled with  some  that  are  joyful.  But 
whether  their  days  were  sad  or  joy- 
ful, my  friends  were  never  deprived 
of  the  light  of  the  divine  presence. 
They  received  from  the  hand  of  God 


happiness  and  sorrow  with  equal 
gratitude,  aware  that  he  disposes  all 
things  for  the  good  of  those  he  loves, 
and  that  in  him  all  they  have  loved 
on  earth  will  be  found  again. 

"  My  friend,  imitate  the  example 
of  these  dear  ones  now  gone !  Keep 
intact  the  gift  of  faith,  which  was 
their  dearest,  most  precious  treasure. 
Let  it  also  be  yours !  If  you  rely  on 
God,  you  will  never  lack  resignation 
and  hope,  even  in  the  midst  of  the 
most  bitter  trials.  Faith,  while  waiting 
to  open  the  gates  of  heaven  to  you 
— faith,  practical  and  ardent,  wonder- 
fully softens  every  trial  here  below." 


THE 


FARM   OF  MUICERON 


^Translate*  from  tije  JFrcnci)  of  |&arfe  Hi)rtl. 


BY 


MRS.    ANNIE    BLOUNT    STORKS 


New  York: 
THE   CATHOLIC   PUBLICATION   SOCIETY, 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874,  by 

THE  CATHOLIC  PUBLICATION    SOCIETY, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


THE  FARM  OF  MUICERON. 


I. 

WHAT  I  am  going  to  relate  to  you 
is  a  true  story  in  every  respect,  see- 
ing that  I  had  it  from  my  late  father 
— in  his  lifetime  the  harness- maker 
of  our  hamlet  of  Val-Saint,  and  who 
was  never  known  to  tell  a  falsehood  : 
may  God  have  mercy  on  his  soul ! 

In  the  village  of  Ordonniers, 
which  was  the  next  one  to  us,  and 
in  our  commune,  where  flows  la 
Range,  lived  a  farmer  named  Louis 
Ragaud.  The  maiden  name  of  his 
wife  was  Pierrette  Aubry ;  but  after 
her  marriage,  according  to  our  cus- 
tom, she  was  called  by  every  one 
La  Ragaude. 

They  were  rich,  and  no  one  was 
jealous  of  them,  as  it  was  known 
that  they  had  commenced  with  no- 
thing, having  been  simply  servants 
in  the  employ  of  M.  le  Marquis  de 
Val-Saint.  Little  by  little  they  had 
risen,  without  having  injured  any 
one,  always  kind  to  the  poor,  never 
miserly  or  boasting ;  so  that,  when  at 
the  end  of  twenty  years  they  found 
they  had  saved  enough  to  buy  the 
beautiful  farm  of  Muiceron,  which 
they  had  previously  rented,  all  the 
neighbors  said :  "  Behold  the  true 
justice  of  the  good  God  !" 

They  had  been  married  a  long 
time,  and  had  no  children.  Now, 
wealth  is  a  great  deal,  but  not  enough 
for  perfect  contentment  of  heart. 
The  good  man  Ragaud  had  fields 
and  meadows  that  yielded  rich  crops, 
strong  oxen,  and  even  vines  that 
bore  well — though  it  must  be  ac- 
knowledged that  the  wines  of  our 
province  were  not  very  renowned. 


As  for  the  farm  buildings,  except 
those  of  the  chateau,  there  were 
scarcely  any  in  a  circle  of  six  leagues 
which  were  as  well  kept ;  and  never- 
theless, Ragaud  sighed  when  looking 
around  him — no  child,  alas  !  and  no 
family,  with  the  exception  of  a  cou- 
sin, who  left  for  the  army  more  than 
thirty  years  before,  and  had  never 
been  heard  of  since ;  so  that,  very 
naturally,  he  could  not  be  counted 
upon. 

La  Ragaude  sighed  still  more. 
She  was  good  and  very  devout,  but 
unable  to  bear  sorrow ;  and  this  was 
so  severe,  so  constant,  it  had  ended 
by  destroying  all  her  happiness. 
Often,  when  looking  at  the  neighbors' 
children  playing  before  the  doors, 
she  felt  her  heart  throb  with  pain, 
and  would  hasten  to  seek  refuge  in 
her  own  house,  where  she  could  give 
free  vent  to  her  tears.  As  this  hap- 
pened more  than  once,  and  as  she 
always  reappeared  with  red  eyes,  it 
had  been  much  remarked,  and  sun- 
dry comments  made.  Not  that  there 
is  much  time  to  be  lost"  in  the  fields, 
but  a  reflection  here  and  there 
scarcely  retards  work.  There  are 
even  those  who  say  that  the  tongue 
assists  the  arm,  and  that  gossipping 
helps  push  the  plough.  It  is  woman's 
tattle,  I  believe ;  but  a  good  number 
of  men  here  and  elsewhere  have 
the  habit  of  repeating  it,  and  I  do 
likewise,  without  inquiring  further. 

The  gossips  of  the  neighborhood — 
above  all,  those  who  had  larger 
families  than  incomes — were  deter- 
mined to  find  out  the  true  cause 
of  Pierrette  Ragaud's  tears ;  and,  as 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


often  happens,  preferred  seeking  for 
wicked  reasons  rather  than  stop 
their  babbling. 

"  It  is  a  thing  I  cannot  under- 
stand," said  one,  "  why  the  mistress 
of  Muiceron  is  so  unhappy  that  she 
weeps  constantly — a  woman  who  is 
so  well  off.  We  must  believe  that 
things  at  the  farm  are  not  so  well  as 
they  appear.  Perhaps  it  is  her  hus- 
band who  makes  all  the  trouble  !" 

"  Her  husband  !  Magdaleine  Pie- 
dau  ?"  replied  another  ;  "  you  must 
be  well  put  to  that  you  imagine  such 
a  thing.  Master  Ragaud  is  the  first 
workman  in  the  country;  and,  as  for 
his  using  bad  words,  that  he  has 
never  done,  any  more  to  his  wife 
than  to  others." 

"  Bah !  what  you  say  is  true,"  re- 
plied Magdaleine  Piedau ;  "  but  all 
the  same,  neighbor,  Ragaud  can  fly 
into  a  rage  as  well  as  any  other  man. 
I  saw  and  heard  him,  day  before 
yesterday,  beside  himself  with  anger 
against  one  of  his  yoke  of  oxen. 
You  know  Capitaine,  the  big  black 
one  ?  Ah !  my  dear,  I  pitied  the 
poor  beast — he  beat  him  well !  with- 
out counting  that  he  swore  so  that 
you  would  not  have  known  him. 
Bah !  don't  talk  to  me !" 

"  Ah !  that  may  be,  but  I  speak 
of  people.  Now,  an  ox  is  not  a 
person !" 

"  There  you  are  right,  thank  God  ! 
Men  are  often  rough  to  beasts,  and 
very  polite  to  Christians ;  but,  in  my 
opinion,  we  must  be  gentle  and 
patient  to  both.  A  beast  that  works 
well  deserves  to  be  well  treated, 
and  Ragaud  had  no  right  to  beat 
his  ox.  I  don't  say  he  would 
treat  his  wife  so;  but,  at  least,  we 
must  allow  that  Pierrette  Ragaud 
does  not  always  look  as  if  her 
life  were  a  holiday.  Ah!  she  has 
trouble,  that  is  very  sure,  poor  crea- 
ture !" 

"  And  the  reason  ?" 


"  The  reason !  Go  and  ask  her. 
Magdaleine,  if  you  are  so  curious." 

"  I  wouldn't  dare ;  for,  after  all,  it 
don't  concern  me  very  much.  What 
I  have  said  was  only  in  the  way  of 
friendly  gossip." 

"  In  that  case,  we  can  speak  of 
other  things;  for  I  don't  know  any 
more  about  it  than  you.  We  will 
leave  it  for  God  to  clear  up.  Go 
and  catch  your  boy,  who  will  fall 
into  the  pond,  Magdaleine  Piedau, 
and  lend  me  your  sickle,  that  I  may 
cut  some  grass  for  my  cows.  .  .  . 
But  to  think  that  Ragaud  ill-treats  his 
wife — no,  no;  that  is  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. After  that,  where  may  we 
hope  to  find  a  good  man  ?  One  don't 
know.  .  .  ." 

"  No,  neighbor,  one  never  knows 
how  it  is  with  them.  You  speak  like  a 
priest,  my  good  woman.  The  de- 
ceased Piedau,  my  man,  that  every 
one  believed  so  good,  .  .  ." 

"  Good-evening,  Magdaleine." 

"  Was  a  drunkard  and  big  eater.  I 
concealed  it  for  ten  years,  and  wept 
alone  like  the  mistress  of  Muiceron." 

"  Good-evening,  neighbor." 

n. 

One  summer  day,  when  La  Ra- 
gaude  was  washing  her  earthen  pans 
in  the  sun,  she  saw  the  curt  of 
Ordonniers  advancing  through  the 
path  in  the  woods.  He  was  a  wor- 
thy priest,  beloved  by  all,  and  well 
deserving  of  it  on  account  of  his 
great  charity.  I  have  heard  it  said 
that,  in  the  years  when  bread  was  so 
dear,  he  gave  away  his  last  measure 
of  wheat,  and  then,  having  no  more 
for  himself,  was  obliged  to  go  to  the 
miller,  Pierre  Cotentin,  and  ask  for 
some  flour  on  credit. 

"  It  is  not  my  custom,"  said  he 
gaily,  "  and  you  are  not  bound  to 
oblige  me;  but  the  times  are  hard, 
and  you  must  never  refuse  to  give 
alms,  even  to  your  curt" 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


The  miller  filled  the  bag  willingly ; 
and  as  for  the  money,  although  he 
was  very  fond  of  it,  he  would  never 
hear  the  word  mentioned. 

Said  he, "  M.  le  Cure  has  an  emp- 
ty purse.  We  must  not  ask  him  where 
the  last  cent  went,  poor  dear  man ! 
Pierre  Cotentin  can  well  feed  him — it 
is  justice  !  Who  will  have  the  heart 
to  be  jealous  ?" 

And  in  fact,  the  cure  was  so  re- 
spected that  not  a  boy,  no  matter 
how  bad  he  was,  ever  failed  to  take 
off  his  cap  when  passing  him. 

When  La  Ragaude  saw^the  black 
cassock  coming  towards  Muiceron, 
she  quickly  arranged  her  pans,  and 
threw  aside  her  working-apron  ;  for 
she  was  a  careful  woman  and  tho- 
rough housekeeper. 

"  Good-morning,  M.  le  Cure;  how 
are  you  ?"  she  asked  joyfully. 

"  Very  warm,  very  warm,"  re- 
plied the  curt /  "  otherwise,  well." 

"  My  dear  monsieur,  why  did  you 
not  wait  until  the  cool  of  the  eve- 
ning to  do  us  the  honor  of  visiting 
us  ?  It  is  roasting  in  the  road.  I 
thought  just  now  I  would  send  a  ser- 
vant to  replace  my  husband  in  the 
fields.  A  storm  is  rising,  the  flies 
bite,  Ragaud  is  not  as  strong  as  he 
was  at  twenty,  and  I  am  afraid  of 
the  beasts — they  are  difficult  to  con- 
trol when  they  become  impatient." 

"  Ah  !  your  husband  is  absent  ?" 

"  Have  you  something  to  say  to 
him,  monsieur?" 

"  To  him  and  to  you  also,  my 
good  woman." 

"  Come  in  and  refresh  yourself," 
said  she. 

M.  le  Cure  entered,  and  took  a 
seat  near  the  table.  He  appeared 
preoccupied,  and  answered  like  a 
man  who  did  not  hear  what  was 
said  to  him.  He  even  placed  his 
cane  against  the  bread-box,  and  his 
hat  on  top — something  which  he  had 
never  done  before,  as  the  slightest 


motion  might  have  sent  them  to  the 
floor.  When  he  put  his  hand  in  his 
pocket  for  his  breviary,  he  found  he 
had  forgotten  it,  which  embarrassed 
him  not  a  little ;  as,  it  must  be  said, 
no  man  was  more  exact  and  particu- 
lar than  he  in  words  as  well  as  in 
actions. 

La  Ragaude,  not  being  a  fool  by 
nature,  quietly  replaced  the  cane  and 
hat  in  a  safe  place,  but  was,  in  her 
turn,  very  much  astonished  to  see  the 
cure  so  absent,  as  it  was  the  first 
time  it  had  ever  happened;  and  from 
that  concluded  he  must  have  some- 
thing in  his  head  of  great  impor- 
tance. What  could  it  be  ? 

WThile  busying  herself  around  the 
room,  without  showing  it,  Pierrette 
Ragaud  had  distractions  also.  She 
drew  new  wine  for  cider,  and  washed 
a  glass  which  had  not  been  used. 
But  that  I  do  not  believe  she  would 
have  perceived  then  or  afterwards; 
for  she  was  so  accustomed  to  scrub 
everything  you  could  have  used  the 
side  walls  of  the  stable  for  a  mirror. 

M.  le  Cure  tasted  the  wine  through 
civility,  but,  as  he  said  nothing,  she 
began  to  feel  rather  impatient.  Wo- 
men are  curious.  My  deceased  fa- 
ther was  accustomed  to  say,  from 
that  came  all  the  evil  from  the  com- 
mencement of  the  world.  It  is  true 
the  dear  man  was  rather  in  his  do- 
tage towards  the  end ;  but  it  is  also 
true  that  I  have  heard  others  say 
the  same  thing. 

Pierrette  at  last  commenced  to 
question  the  cure"  very  respectfully 
and  gently ;  for,  in  truth,  she  could 
no  longer  restrain  herself. 

"Although  the  master  is  out,  M. 
le  Cure,"  said  she,  "  will  you  not 
tell  me  what  I  can  do  to  serve  you  ? 
— without  pressing  to  know,  you  un- 
derstand, monsieur." 

M.  le  Cure  raised  his  eyes,  and 
replied  as  gravely  as  though  he  were 
preaching  a  sermon : 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


"I  have  come  to  know,  in  the 
name  of  the  good  God,  Mme. 
Ragaud,  if  you  are  disposed  to  act 
charitably." 

"  Oh !  if  it  is  to  aid  those  who 
are  suffering  and  in  need,  my  hus- 
band and  I  will  be  most  happy  to 
assist  you,"  frankly  cried  La  Ragaude, 
who  spoke  with  her  whole  heart  and 
soul.  "  Thank  God !  there  is  yet 
money  in  the  drawer.  Tell  me  how 
much  you  want,  monsieur." 

The  good  curt  shook  his  head, 
laughing,  a,nd  repeated  two  or  three 
times,  "  Good,  good,"  which  was  a 
sign  that  he  was  pleased. 

"  You  are  always  ready  to  give 
money  to  the  poor,  I  know,"  said 
he;  "but  to-day  that  is  not  the 
question.  I  have  come  to  ask  you 
for  something  of  greater  importance." 

"  More  so  than  money  !  Heaven 
of  our  Lord !"  said  Pierrette,  slightly 
amazed.  "  I  do  not  know,  M.  le 
Cure,  how,  then,  I  can  oblige  you." 

She  said  that,  although  she  had  a 
generous  heart;  but  money  with  us 
is  always  the  great  affair.  In  the 
fields,  as  in  the  city,  the  poor  man 
who  eats  his  bread  while  working 
knows  that  the  francs  are  not  picked 
up  under  the  horses'  feet. 

"  Money,"  replied  M.  le  Cure, 
"  when  the  soul  is  wanting  in  cha- 
rity, is  given,  and  there  it  ends ;  but 
what  I  have  come  to  ask  of  you  is 
a  good  work  which  will  not  end  for 
a  long  while,  and  which  will  need 
good- will,  and  great  patience  especi- 
ally, on  your  part." 

"  I  can  guess  what  it  is,"  said 
Pierrette. 

"  Indeed !"  replied  the  curt. 
"Well,  that  spares  me  the  difficulty 
of  explaining  myself.  Let  us  hear, 
Mme.  Ragaud,  what  you  have 
guessed." 

"  I  have  heard  it  said  you  were 
very  much  worried  about  your  sur- 
plices and  altar-linens,  since  Catha- 


rine Luguet  left  the  country  so 
shamefully,  like  a  good-for-nothing 
girl,  to  seek  her  fortune  in  Paris," 
said  La  Ragaude,  blushing — for  this 
Catharine  was  a  distant  cousin — 
"  and  doubtless,  M.  le  Cure,  you 
wish  me  to  replace  her,  and  take 
charge  of  the  sacristy." 

"And  if  it  were  so,  would  you 
refuse  me  ?" 

"  Certainly  not,  monsieur.  I 
would  willingly  do  my  best  to  please 
you.  Not  that  I  have  as  light  a 
hand  as  Catharine  for  plaiting  and 
folding ;  but  for  washing  and  ironing, 
I  can  say,4  without  boasting,  I  am 
the  equal  of  any  one." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  curd.  "  I 
accept  an  offer  made  so  willingly. 
But  to  speak  truly,  I  have  not  come 
for  that. " 

"  Then,"  replied  Pierrette,  in  as- 
tonishment, "  I  cannot  imagine 
what  you  want  me  to  do." 

"  This  is  it,"  said  the  curt,  tak- 
ing a  serious  tone:  "This  morning, 
Pierrette,  a  bundle  was  left  at  my 
house  .  .  ." 

"I  bet,"  cried  La  Ragaude,  "it 
was  the  beautiful  monstrance  pro- 
mised by  M.  le  Marquis  for  Corpus 
Christi !" 

"  No,  it  was  a  new-born  infant,  a 
beautiful  boy,  Mme.  .Ragaud;  and, 
since  the  good  God  has  allowed 
you  to  remain  childless,  and  that 
this  privation  has  greatly  afflicted 
you,  I  immediately  thought  he  des- 
tined this  child  for  you." 

"  Monsieur,"  replied  Pierrette, 
with  emotion,  "  it  is  true  that  it  is 
very  hard  for  me  to  be  alone  in  the 
house,  and  to  think  that  I  will  die 
and  leave  no  one  after  me  to  inherit 
Muiceron;  but  I  prefer  it  to  work- 
ing all  my  life  for  a  child  sprung, 
perhaps,  from  a  wicked  race." 

"  I  know  where  it  comes  from," 
said  the  curt ;  "  but  still  I  can  tell 
you  nothing,  as  it  is  a  secret  of  the 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


confessional.  But  have  confidence  in 
me;  as  for  the  race,  it  is  not  bad." 

"  It  is  the  same  thing.  I  don't  be- 
lieve in  these  foundlings." 

"  Say  nothing  further  about  it," 
replied  the  curt  rather  sadly ;  "  I 
will  send  it  to  the  hospital." 

And  then,  without  appearing  to 
feel  either  pique  or  bitterness,  M.  le 
Cure  commenced  to  converse  on 
other  subjects,  speaking  of  the  next 
harvest,  the  price  of  the  new  wine, 
and  of  the  last  fair,  with  even  voice 
and  kind  looks,  that  showed  plainly 
he  did  not  wish  his  parishioner  to 
think  he  was  pained  by  her  rather 
prompt  refusal. 

This  kindness  of  a  heart  truly 
charitable  had  more  effect  on  good 
Pierrette  than  reproaches  or  scold- 
ing. She  did  her  best  to  reply  to 
the  curj,  but  her  eyes  were  wet 
against  her  will,  and  soon  she  be- 
came so  absent-minded  the  curt  with 
difficulty  repressed  his  mirth,  seeing 
that  he  had  gained  ground  by  the 
ell,  without  seeming  to  do  it  inten- 
tionally. 

"You  see,"  said  he,  "by  often 
hearing  the  bells  ring,  one  becomes 
a  bell-ringer  ;  and  as  I  love  all  my 
parishioners,  like  a  true  pastor,  I  go 
everywhere,  inquiring  and  advising, 
so  that  I  may  be  useful  in  case  of 
need.  In  that  way,  Mme.  Ragaud, 
without  ever  having  driven  a  plough 
or  taken  care  of  cattle,  God  has  given 
me  the  grace  of  being  able  to  advise 
on  all  rural  subjects,  as  well  as  the 
first  master-farmer  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. Thus,  I  will  say  to  you: 
'  When  there  are  more  pears  than 
apples,  keep  your  wine,  good  man.' 
This  is  a  country  proverb  hundreds 
of  years  old.  Now,  as  this  year  there 
are  more  pears  than  they  know  what 
to  do  with,  believe  me,  keep  your 
vintage,  and  you  will  have  news  to 
tell  me  of  it  by  next  Easter." 

"  I  do  not  know  how  Ragaud  will 


decide,"  replied  Pierrette ;  "  he  is 
always  afraid  when  the  cellar  is 
full.  .  ." 

"  The  proverb  never  fails,  my 
good  woman;  and  that  is  easily 
understood  when  one  reflects  how 
and  why  proverbs  have  obtained 
credit." 

"  But,  M.  le  Cure,"  interrupted  La 
Ragaude,  "  if  you  knew  where  this 
poor  abandoned  child  came  from,  it 
seems  to  me  .  .  ." 

"What  child?"  said  the  curt, 
taking  a  pinch  of  snuff,  so  as  to 
appear  indifferent.  "  Oh !  yes,  the 
little  one  of  this  morning.  What, 
do  you  still  think  of  it  ?  Bah  !  let  it 
pass;  after  all,  the  hospital  is  not  a 
place  where  one  dies  from  want  of 
care." 

"  I  know  it;  but  it  is  sad,  monsieur, 
very  sad,  for  one  of  those  little 
innocents  to  say  afterwards,  '  I  was 
in  a  hospital ' ;  that  always  gives  a 
bad  idea." 

"What  can  be  done,  Mme. 
Ragaud  ?  One  becomes  accustomed 
to  everything.  Come,  come,  don't 
make  yourself  uneasy.  We  were  say- 
ing, then,  .  .  .  what  were  we  say- 
ing ?  Ah  !  I  remember  now.  I  was 
telling  you  that  proverbs  must  be 
believed,  and  for  the  reason  that 
these  little  village-sayings  are  only 
repeated  after  they  have  been  veri- 
fied by  the  great  and  long  experience 
of  our  fathers.  Thus,  you  will  see 
that  the  last  part  of  the  one  I  just 
quoted  is  equally  curious :  '  When 
there  are  more  apples  than  pears, 
then,  good  man,  you  can  drink.' 
Well,  wasn't  it  a  fact  last  year? 
There  were  so  many  apples  that  a 
jug  of  cider  was  only  worth  two 
farthings ;  Jhere  was  enough  for  eveiy- 
body,  and  the  wine  was  so  abundant 
that — you  are  not  listening  to  me, 
Pierrette  Ragaud  ?" 

"  Excuse  me,  M.  le  Cure",  I  am 
listening  attentively ;  but  I  was  think- 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


ing  perhaps  my  husband  would  not 
return  ;  and,  nevertheless,  he  should 
have  a  little  talk  with  you." 

"  About  the  vintage  ?  We  have 
time  enough  until  then  for  that," 
replied  the  curt  with  a  spice  of 
malice. 

"About  the  little  innocent,  dear 
monsieur.  The  truth  is,  I  feel  my 
heart  ache  when  I  think  he  will  go 
to  the  hospital  through  my  fault." 

"  And  as  for  me,  my  good  woman, 
I  am  sorry  that  I  spoke  to  you  about 
it;  yes,  sorry,"  he  repeated  earnest- 
ly, "  for  I  have  worried  you,  and  I 
had  no  such  intention  when  I  came 
to  visit  you.  I  see  now  that  you 
are  inclined  on  the  side  of  the  good 
work;  but  I  don't  wish  to  force  you 
to  take  it  in  hand.  Here,  now,  if 
the  hospital  frightens  you,  I  have 
thought  of  another  arrangement, 
which  might  work  well.  My  old 
Germaine,  notwithstanding  her  thirty 
years  of  servics,  is  still  active,  and 
the  work  in  my  house  don't  kill  her. 
We  will  buy  a  good  milking-goat  at 
the  August  fair;  until  then,  you  will 
lend  us  one,  and,  God  willing,  the 
little  one  will  remain  where  his  good 
angel  deposited  him." 

"  May  the  Lord  bless  you !"  cried 
(a  Ragaude,  the  tears  streaming  from 
tier  eyes.  "  But  what  a  shame  for  us 
to  let  you  burden  yourself  with  such 
a  heavy  load,  when  you  already  give 
more  than  you  can  afford !  No,  no, 
holy  and  good  Virgin  Mary !  For  my 
part,  I  would  not  sleep  easy  after 
such  an  act." 

The  good  curt  clasped  his  hands, 
and  in  his  heart  rendered  thanks  to 
all  the  saints  in  paradise.  He  was 
very  much  touched,  and  as  he  w'as 
about  to  thank  Pierrette  as  she  de- 
served, Ragaud  returned  from  the 
fields. 

They  cordially  saluted  each  other ; 
and,  very  naturally,  as  the  good  man 
saw  his  wife  wiping  her  eyes,  and  the 


curt  almost  ready  to  do  likewise,  he 
asked  what  had  excited  them.  There- 
upon M.  le  Cure  commenced  a  long 
discourse,  so  gentle  and  so  touching — 
he  spoke  of  charity,  of  the  rewards  of 
heaven,  the  happiness  of  generous 
hearts,  with  words  so  beautifully  turn- 
ed that  never  in  the  parish  church, 
on  the  greatest  festivals,  had  he 
preached  better.  Pierrette,  as  she 
afterwards  said,  thought  she  was  lis- 
tening to  the  holy  patron  saint  of 
Ordonniers,  who  in  his  lifetime,  it  is 
related,  spoke  so  well  that  the  birds 
stopped  singing  to  listen  to  him. 
Ragaud  remained  silent,  but  he  shook 
his  head,  and  turned  his  cap  around 
in  his  hands — signs  of  great  emotion 
with  him. 

Meanwhile,  he  said  neither  yes  nor 
no,  but  asked  time  for  reflection,  pro- 
mising to  give  his  answer  the  next 
day  before  twelve  o'clock.  He  was 
perfectly  right,  and  M.  le  Cure,  who 
felt  in  the  bottom  of  his  heart  that 
the  cause  was  gained,  wished  even  to 
wait  until  Sunday ;  but  Ragaud  did 
not  like  to  take  back  his  word. 

"  I  said  to-morrow,  M.  le  Cure,  and 
it  will  be  to-morrow,"  said  he,  when 
conducting  his  pastor  to  the  threshold 
of  the  door. 

"  Dear,  holy  soul  of  the  good  God  !" 
cried  Pierrette,  looking  after  the  curt 
as  he  leisurely  walked  down  the  road, 
repeating  his  rosary  as  he  went  along. 
"  Good  dear  priest,  that  he  is !  We 
need  many  more  like  him,  Ragaud  !" 

"  Good,  holy  man,  in  truth,"  replied 
the  farmer;  "but  what  he  propos- 
es to  us  is  an  affair  of  importance. 
You  are  young  and  healthy  yet, 
wife,  but  in  ten  years  your  arms  will 
not  be  as  strong  as  now.  You  must 
think  of  that,  even  if  God  keeps  you 
in  good  health.  A  child  is  a  com- 
fort in  a  house,  but  all  the  burden  falls 
on  the  mother.  Suppose  this  little 
one  should  become  refractory  and 
vagabond,  like  Coten tin's  son." 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


"  That  is  true,"  said  La  Ragaude. 

"  Suppose  he  should  get  bad  ideas 
toi  his  head,  and  send  religion  and 
honesty  to  the  devil." 

"  That  would  be  a  great  misfor- 
tune," again  said  La  Ragaude,  but  this 
time  sighing. 

"  I  know  you,"  continued  the  good 
man — "  you  become  attached  to  every 
one.  Didn't  you  weep  like  a  little  girl 
because  I  beat  Capitaine,  who  is  only 
an  ox,  and  who  deserved  it  ?  And  hav- 
en't I  seen  you  half  crazy  because  Bru- 
nette had  the  gripes  ? — and  she  was 
only  a  cow.  .  .  .  Can  it  be  hoped  that 
you  would  be  more  reasonable  about 
a  child  who  would  become  ours  ? — 
for  we  must  do  the  thing  well  or  not  at 
all;  isn't  it  so?" 

"  It  is  just  as  you  say,"  replied 
Pierrette,  sighing  still  louder ;  "  but 
what,  then,  shall  we  do  ?" 

"  My  opinion  is  that  we  must  con- 
sider it  well,"  answered  Ragaud. 

"  You  only  consider  the  bad  side," 
said  La  Ragaude  gently;  "but  sup- 
pose the  little  one  should  preserve  the 
blessing  of  his  baptism,  and  let  himself 
be  well  governed — later,  we  would  be 
very  happy  and  well  rewarded." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  the  farmer. 

"  If,"  continued  La  Ragaude,  "  I 
am  easily  worried  about  animals,  I 
know  well  it  would  not  be  the  same 
thing  with  a  Christian.  You  see, 
husband,  the  poor  beasts  suffer  with- 
out being  able  to  complain  or  ex- 
plain themselves ;  and,  therefore,  I  am 
always  afraid  of  their  being  treated 
unjustly.  But  a  boy  has  his  tongue, 
and  can  defend  himself. .  We  can  talk 
sense  to  him,  and  if  he  won't  listen, 
why,  we  will  put  him  to  school." 

"  Bah  !  you  will  spoil  him  so  that 
he  will  be  master  of  the  house  be- 
fore he  is  in  breeches." 

"  Don't  fear,"  cried  Pierrette ;  "  that 
will  never  be,  or  I  should  think  my- 
self wanting  in  gratitude  to  the  good 
God." 


"  If  I  could  be  sure  of  that,  my 
wife,  I  would  attempt  it.  But,  come ; 
let  the  night  pass  before  deciding." 

They  did  not  mention  it  again 
until  the  next  day ;  but  Pierrette  took 
care,  before  retiring,  to  light  a  taper 
at  her  bedside,  beneath  a  beautiful 
picture  of  Our  Lady  of  Liesse. 

Early  the  next  morning,  she  went, 
as  usual,  to  feed  her  turkeys  and 
drive  her  cows  to  the  meadow.  On 
her  return,  she  saw  Ragaud  dressing 
himself  in  his  Sunday  clothes. 

"  I  think,  wife,"  said  he,  "  we  had 
better,  at  least,  see  this  little  one  be- 
fore deciding." 

Pierrette  hastened  to  throw  aside 
her  apron  ;  and  then  it  appeared  she 
had  expected  such  a  decision,  as  at 
dawn  she  had  dressed  herself  in 
her  new  gown  of  gray  serge,  with 
her  bright-flowered  neckerchief  from 
Rouen,  which  had  only  been  worn 
at  the  last  feast  of  the  good  S.  Anne, 
in  July. 

It  was  thus  the  worthy  couple  pro- 
ceeded on  their  way  to  the  priest's 
house.  As  it  was  Thursday,  and 
neither  festival,  nor  fair,  nor  market- 
day  in  the  village,  the  neighbors  star- 
ed as  they  saw  them  pass,  and,  unable 
to  imagine  the  cause,  chattered  non- 
sense, half  from  malice,  half  from 
spite;  and  Simonne  Durand,  well 
known  for  her  viper  tongue,  said 
aloud :  "  We  must  believe  the  Ra- 
gauds  are  going  to  obtain  the  priest's 
blessing  on  their  fiftieth  anniversary, 
as  they  are  so  finely  dressed  on  a 
week-day." 

This  wicked  jealousy  went  a  little 
too  far,  and  profited  nothing  to  the 
spiteful  thing,  as  every  one  knew 
the  Ragauds  had  only  been  married 
twenty  years  at  the  furthest;  but, 
when  the  mind  is  full  of  malice,  there 
is  little  time  for  reflection. 

When  the  good  friends  arrived  at 
the  pastoral  residence,  M.  le  Cure  had 
just  entered  after  saying  his  Mass; 


10 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


and  we  need  not  ask  if  he  had  pray- 
ed well.  Germaine,  his  old  servant, 
held  the  baby  in  her  lap,  and  was 
feeding  him  with  boiled  goat's  milk. 
Pierrette  could  not  restrain  her  de- 
light on  seeing  what  a  beautiful  child 
it  was,  and  that  it  was  at  least  six  or 
seven  months  old.  She  snatched  it 
from  Germaine's  arms,  and  commenc- 
ed kissing  it,  not  caring  that  she  had 
interrupted  his  little  repast.  This 
showed  that  the  child  was  good-na- 
tured ;  for  instead  of  crying,  as  a  sick- 
ly,  cross  baby  would  have  done  simi- 
larly situated,  he  crowed  with  joy, 
and  put  out  his  little  hands,  dazzled 
with  the  fine,  flowered  neckerchief  of 
his  new  mamma. 

"  How  pretty  and  healthy  he  is  !" 
cried  La  Ragaude.  "  My  dear  M.  le 
Cure,  you  told  me  it  was  a  new-born 
child." 

"  Did  I  say  so,  Pierrette  ?  It  was 
because  I  did  not  know  much  about 
it." 

"  So  it  seems,"  replied  the  good 
woman,  gaily.  "  The  little  darling  is 
at  least  seven  or  eight  months  old ; 
don't  you  think  so,  Germaine  ?" 

"  I  know  one  a  year  old  not  so 
large  as  he,"  answered  the  old  ser- 
vant. "  But  that  is  not  all,  Mme.  Ra- 
gaud ;  you  see  him  in  the  day-time, 
but  it  is  at  night  that  he  is  good  and 
amusing.  He  sleeps  without  stirring, 
like  a  little  corpse.  For  my  part,  I 
would  not  be  afraid  to  bring  him  up." 

Ragaud  had  not  yet  said  a  word, 
and  still  upon  him  all  depended. 

"  Come  and  talk  a  little  while  with 
M.  le  Cure,"  said  he,  pulling  his  wife 
by  the  skirt. 

Pierrette  quickly  rose  to  obey  him, 
according  to  her  good  habit,  but  she 
did  not  give  up  the  young  one ;  so 
that  Ragaud  gently  reproved  her  for 
again  showing  herself  as  ready  to  be- 
come attached  to  men  as  to  beasts. 

We  need  not  be  sorcerers  to  divine 
what  happened.  In  less  than  a  quar- 


ter of  an  hour,  the  contract  of  adop- 
tion was  passed  satisfactorily,  without 
notary  or  scribbling.  It  was  signed 
with  a  friendly  shake  of  the  hands ; 
and  to  say  which  one  of  these  good 
hearts  was  the  best  satisfied  would 
not  be  very  easy. 

in. 

Now,  without  further  delay,  I  am 
going  to  show  you,  as  they  say,  the 
under-card  in  relation  to  the  little 
one.  True,  it  was  a  secret  of  the 
confessional,  at  least  for  the  time 
being;  but  later,  it  was  everybody's 
secret.  The  story  is  simple,  and  will 
not  be  long.  You  remember  that 
our  curt,  in  conversation  with  Pier- 
rette, led  her  to  mention  a  certain 
Catharine  Luguet,  against  whom  the 
good  woman  appeared  very  much 
incensed.  This  Catharine  was  an 
orphan,  whose  parents,  dying,  left  her 
when  quite  young  without  any  means 
of  support.  Germaine  watched  over 
her  like  a  daughter,  and  M.  le  Cure, 
to  keep  her  near  him,  paid  her  ap- 
prenticeship to  a  seamstress;  after 
which,  having  grown  up,  and  being 
very  skilful  with  her  needle,  he  placed 
her  in  a  little  room  near  the  church, 
and  gave  her  charge  of  the  sacristy. 
But,  unfortunately,  the  poor  child 
was  as  pretty  as  a  picture,  and  lov- 
ed compliments,  dress,  and  dancing, 
which  is  a  great  danger  for  a  young 
girl,  especially  in  a  village.  Catha- 
rine commenced  by  degrees  to  make 
people  talk  about  her,  and  not  with- 
out cause.  The  Ragauds,  who  were 
distantly  related  to  her  on  the 
mother's  side,  at  first  reprimanded 
her,  and  finally  would  not  see  her. 
The  girl  was  quick-tempered,  resented 
the  treatment,  and  one  fine  day  went 
off,  saying  that  she  could  easily  find 
in  Paris  people  who  would  be  happy 
to  receive  her. 

Two  years  passed  without  news  of 
her.     Her  name  was  no  longer  men- 


The  Farm  of  M nicer  on. 


II 


tioned  in  the  village,  and  from  that 
M.  le  Cure  surmised  some  misfortune 
had  happened.  He  prayed  for  the 
poor  girl,  and  unceasingly  begged 
the  good  God  to  mercifully  receive 
her  through  his  grace,  if  not  during 
her  life,  at  least  at  the  hour  of  death. 
His  prayer  was  heard  at  a  moment 
when  he  scarcely  expected  it.  One 
morning,  when  Germaine  had  left  the 
village  at  day-dawn  to  make  some 
purchases  in  the  city,  she  took  it  into 
her  head  to  pay  a  visit  to  one  of  her 
good  friends,  who  was  a  Gray  Sister  in 
a  large  hospital.  They  talked  about 
the  patients ;  and  the  sister,very  much 
affected,  spoke  of  a  young  woman 
she  had  received  the  week  before, 
and  who  appeared  very  near  her  end. 

"  I  have  put  her  by  herself,"  said 
she,  "  and  I  will  confide  to  you,  Ger- 
maine, that  this  poor  afflicted  creature 
has  a  child ;  and,  between  ourselves, 
I  very  much  believe  she  is  dying  as 
much  of  shame  as  of  want." 

Germaine  wished  to  see  her ;  but, 
at  the  first  look,  the  sick  woman 
uttered  a  loud  cry,  and  hid  her  head 
under  the  counterpane. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  said  Ger- 
maine. "  I  frighten  her." 

"  We  have  awakened  her,"  re- 
plied the  good  sister,  "  and  she  is 
nervous.  I  should  have  entered 
alone." 

But  the  poor  girl  sobbed  without 
showing  her  face.  At  last  the  sister 
calmed  her.  Germaine,  on  her  side, 
spoke  kindly,  and  finally  she  drew 
down  the  covering.  You  can  imag- 
ine the  rest. 

It  was  Catharine  Luguet,  but  how 
changed !  She,  formerly  so  pretty, 
so  bright,  and  so  laughing — and  now 
her  mother  herself  would  scarcely 
have  recognized  her.  The  innocent 
little  being  that  slept  in  a  cradle  by 
her  side  told  all  her  story.  What  she 
had  found  in  Paris,  what  had  brought 
her  back  to  the  country,  there  to 


die,  were  dishonor,  misery,  and  an 
orphan  without  a  name — but  also 
sincere  and  true  repentance ;  and  the 
good  God,  who  has  certainly  received 
her  in  paradise,  struck  the  blow,  that 
she  might  be  saved. 

Who  was  astonished,  and  at  heart 
happy,  in  spite  of  his  sorrow,  which 
can  be  well  understood  ?  It  was  our 
cure.  Holy  man  that  he  was,  he  was 
happier  to  have  his  lost  sheep 
brought  back  to  him,  even  although 
half  dead,  than  not  to  have  found 
her  at  all.  The  next  day,  he  has- 
tened to  Issoudun,  and  remained  the 
greater  part  of  the  afternoon  with 
poor  Catharine. 

Issoudun  was  the  nearest  large 
city  to  our  village,  and,  if  I  have  for- 
gotten to  tell  you  so,  I  beg  you  will 
excuse  me. 

Although  my  father  gave  me  some 
slight  details  of  the  unfortunate  girl's 
story,  I  will  not  relate  them;  for 
many  long  years  she  has  reposed  in 
consecrated  ground,  and,  as  the  de  IT, 
good  man  wisely  said,  "  The  s  ns 
which  have  received  the  pardon  of 
God  should  be  hidden  by  man;" 
and  this  is  true  charity. 

It  is  only  necessary  to  say  that 
this  first  visit  of  our  curt  was  fol- 
lowed by  many  others.  Catharine 
declined  visibly,  and  her  little  one,, 
from  whom  she  would  not  be  sepa- 
rated, was  a  great  worry  to  her. 
The  sisters  took  care  of  him,  and 
fed  him  to  the  best  of  their  ability 
during  the  day,  but  they  could  not 
attend  to  him  at  night.  He  was 
beautiful  and  healthy,  and  grew  like 
a  weed — which  was  a  miracle,  con- 
sidering the  state  of  the  mother — but 
his  first  teeth  commenced  to  appear,, 
and  rendered  him  restless  and  trou- 
blesome. One  morning,  when  M.  le 
Cure  and  Germaine  went  together  to 
the  hospital,  they  found  poor  Catha- 
rine so  ill  they  fea-ed  she  would  not 
pass  the  day. 


12 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


"  My  daughter,"  said  Germaine  to 
her,  "be  reasonable;  let  me  have 
your  child.  I  will  take  great  care  of 
him." 

"As  you  please,"  replied  Catha- 
rine. 

He  was  instantly  carried  away; 
and,  that  no  one  should  penetrate 
the  secret,  a  confidential  woman, 
employed  in  the  hospital,  came  in 
the  night-time,  and  left  him  at  the 
priest's  house  in  the  village.  That 
same  night,  poor  Catharine  became 
speechless,  but  was  conscious  until 
the  moment  of  her  death,  which  soon 
happened,  and  never  was  there  seen 
a  more  peaceful  and  touching  agony. 
The  sisters  saw  with  admiration 
that  after  death  she  regained  her 
beauty,  and  her  face  its  youthful 
look  of  twenty  years. 

"  She  is  smiling  with  the  angels," 
said  the  pious  souls,  and  it  was  not 
to  be  doubted ;  for  the  angels  re- 
ceive with  as  great  joy  the  repentant 
as  the  innocent. 

The  little  one  was  baptized  and 
registered  under  the  name  of  his 
poor  mother.  Our  curd  easily  pro- 
cured all  the  necessary  acts;  but  for 
the  family  name,  the  dear  innocent 
had  none  to  bear,  at  least  for  a  long 
time.  He  was  called  Jean-Louis ; 
about  the  rest,  there  was  silence. 
As  to  the  secret  of  his  birth,  although 
confided  in  confession,  Catharine,  be- 
fore dying,  said  to  the  curd  : 

"  You  will  tell  all,  my  father,  if  it 
is  necessary,  later,  for  the  future  of 
my  child." 

And  you  will  see  in  the  end  that 
it  was  a  wise  speech. 

Between  ourselves,  this  holy,  good 
man  of  a  cure,  who  was  gentle  and 
merciful,  as  much  from  a  sense  of 
duty  as  by  inclination  of  heart,  had 
always  blamed  the  Ragauds  for  their 
rigorous  severity  against  the  poor  de- 
parted. Says  the  proverb,  "  In  trying 
to  do  too  much,  one  often  fails  to  do 


well."  Perhaps  it  would  have  been 
better  to  have  patiently  borne  with 
the  poor  inexperienced  girl  than  to 
have  driven  her  from  the  protection 
of  her  only  relatives  on  account  of 
malicious  gossip.  But  Ragaud  did 
not  understand  jesting ;  he  was,  as  the 
saying  runs,  as  stiff  as  a  poker,  and, 
as  soon  as  the  wicked  tongues  com- 
menced to  wag  about  her,  he  said, 
"  There  is  no  smoke  without  fire," 
and  closed  his  mind  to  all  explana- 
tions, and  his  door  to  the  girl.  Thus 
had  they  acted  towards  Catharine, 
without  thinking  that  then  she  was 
only  giddy  and  coquettish — faults 
which  might  have  been  cured  as 
long  as  the  soul  was  not  spoiled. 
The  treatment  was  too  harsh ;  it 
caused  the  flight  to  Paris,  which 
took  place  in  a  moment  of  anger  and 
spite,  and  all  the  misfortunes  that 
followed.  In  strict  justice,  the  Ra- 
gauds should  in  a  measure  make  re- 
paration for  an  action  done  with  good 
intentions,  but  which  had  ended 
so  badly.  Our  curd  foresaw  that 
sooner  or  later  they  would  be  sorry 
for  it ;  therefore^  in  burdening  them 
with  the  child,  he  acted  shrewdly, 
but  also  with  great  fairness.  I  cer- 
tainly will  not  blame  him,  nor  you 
either,  I  think. 

IV. 

From  the  day  that  poor  Catharine's 
child  was  installed  in  the  house  of 
her  relatives,  there  was  a  change  in 
Muiceron.  Pieirrette  no  longer  wept, 
and,  far  from  being  grieved,  as  former- 
ly, at  the  sight  of  other  children,  she 
willingly  drew  them  around  her.  On 
Saturdays,  when  she  baked  her  bread 
for  the  week,  she  never  failed  to 
make  a  large  crumpet  of  wheaten 
flour,  beaten  up  with  eggs,  and  a 
bowl  of  curds  and  fresh  cream,  for 
the  sole  purpose  of  regaling  the 
young  ones  of  the  neighborhood. 
We  need  not  inquire  if,  on  these 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


evenings,  the  house  was  full.  The 
children  were  well  satisfied,  and  their 
mammas  also ;  for  Saturday's  supper 
remained  whole  for  Sunday,  and,  in 
the  meantime,  the  little  rascals  went 
to  bed  gayer  than  usual,  thanks  to 
a  glass  of  white  wine  that  watered 
the  crumpet  and  filled  the  measure 
of  joy  in  all  those  little  heads. 

It  was  also  remarked  that  Ragaud's 
jests  were  more  frequent  at  the 
meetings  of  the  church  wardens  of 
the  parish  on  the  appointed  days 
after  Vespers.  Sometimes  he  even 
went  off  in  the  morning  to  his  work 
singing  the  airs  of  the  country-dances, 
which  was  a  sure  proof  that  his  heart 
was  at  peace ;  for,  by  nature,  he  was 
a  man  more  serious  than  gay,  and  as 
for  singing,  that  was  something  quite 
out  of  his  usual  habit. 

These  good  people  thus  already 
received  a  holy  reward  for  their 
generous  conduct.  According  to  the 
old  adage,  "  Contentment  is  better 
than  wealth  " ;  and  now  they,  who 
had  so  long  possessed  riches  without 
contentment,  had  the  happiness  of 
enjoying  both.  Quite  contrary  to 
many  Christians,  who  imagine  that 
the  good  God  owes  them  everything, 
the  Ragauds  every  evening  thanked 
Heaven  for  this  increase  of  wealth. 
Now,  if  gratitude  is  pleasing  to  men, 
it  is  easy  to  believe  that  it  draws 
down  blessings  from  on  high;  and 
from  day  to  day  this  could  be  clear- 
ly seen  at  Muiceron. 

Little  Jean-Louis  grew  wonder- 
fully, and  gave  good  Pierrette  neither 
trouble  nor  care.  At  his  age,  chil- 
dren only  cry  from  hunger,  and  as 
he,  well  fed  and  well  cared  for,  had 
nothing  to  complain  of,  it  followed 
that  he  grew  up  scarcely  ever  shed- 
ding a  tear. 

When  he  was  one  year  old,  it 
seemed  that  the  good  boiled  goat's 
milk  was  no  longer  to  his  taste,  as  he 
put  on  a  discontented  look  when  he 


saw  the  smoking  bowl.  Ragaud,  one 
evening,  for  a  joke,  put  his  glass  to 
the  boy's  lips,  and,  far  from  turning 
his  head,  he  came  forward  boldly, 
and  drank  the  cider  like  a  man. 
This  highly  delighted  Master  Ra- 
gaud, who  wished  to  try  if  a  piece 
of  dry  pork,  in  the  shape  of  a  rattle, 
would  please  him  as  well ;  but  to 
that  Pierrette  objected,  maintaining 
that  a  root  of  marsh-mallow  was  a 
hundred  times  better,  particularly  as 
the  little  fellow  was  getting  his  double 
teeth. 

"  You  wish  to  bring  him  up  like  a 
woman,"  said  Ragaud,  shrugging  his 
shoulders;  but,  nevertheless,  he  let 
the  mistress  have  her  own  way. 

There  were  no  other  disputes  about 
him  until  he  had  attained  his  third 
year,  for  then  his  excellent  health, 
which  had  caused  so  much  happi- 
ness, was  nothing  in  comparison  with 
the  good  instincts  which  commenced 
to  develop.  He  was  lively  and  gen- 
tle, chattered  away  delightfully,  and 
was  always  so  obedient  and  tender, 
that  to  pay  him  for  his  good  behav- 
ior, the  Ragauds  nearly  killed  him 
with  kindness.  In  regard  to  his  ap- 
pearance, I  will  tell  you  that  in 
height  he  surpassed  most  children  of 
his  age,  his  hair  was  black  and  curly, 
his  eyes  dark  also  and  very  bright. 
With  all  this,  he  was  not  very  hand- 
some, as,  growing  so  fast,  he  had  kept 
very  thin ;  but  Pierrette  said  wisely, 
he  would  have  time  to  grow  fat,  and 
since  he  ate,  drank,  and  slept  when 
he  was  tired,  there  was  nothing  to 
fear. 

One  thing  will  astonish  you,  that 
neither  of  the  Ragauds  perceived  for 
an  instant  that  the  child  was  the 
living  image  of  poor  Catharine  Lu- 
guet ;  and  still  the  likeness  was  so 
striking,  M.  le  Cure  spoke  of  it  in- 
cessantly to  Germaine,  and  expected 
on  every  visit  to  Muiceron  to  be 
embarrassed  by  some  remark  on  th 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


subject.  But  whether  the  good  people 
had  really  forgotten  their  relative,  or 
did  not  wish  by  even  pronouncing  her 
name  to  recall  a  sorrowful  remem- 
brance, certain  it  is  that  nothing  in 
their  words  or  actions,  which  were 
perfectly  frank  and  simple,  betrayed 
in  the  slightest  degree  that  they  ever 
thought  of  it. 

About  tjiat  time,  Pierrette  com- 
menced to  be  more  uneasy,  as  Mas- 
ter Jean-Louis  often  escaped  on  the 
side  of  the  stables,  and  delighted  in 
racing  up  and  down  the  bank,  bor- 
dered with  tall  grass,  of  the  stream 
that  ran  behind  the  bleaching- 
ground  of  Muiceron.  With  such 
a  bold  boy,  who  would  not  lis- 
ten to  any  warning,  an  accident  very 
often  happens;  therefore,  the  good 
woman  placed  around  his  neck  a 
medal  of  S.  Sylvain,  in  addition  to 
that  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary, 
which  he  had  worn  ever  since  his 
arrival  at  the  farm. 

S.  Sylvain  is  a  patron  saint  vene- 
rated in  our  province,  who  won  hea- 
ven in  leading  the  life  of  a  peasant 
like  us.  Pierrette  had  a  great  devo- 
tion for  him,  and  said  that  the  saints 
above  remember  with  tenderness 
those  of  their  own  former  condition 
on  earth ;  consequently,  no  one  in 
the  good  God's  heaven  could  better 
protect  a  child  daily  exposed  to  the 
accidents  of  rural  life.  One  day  es- 
pecially, when  he  wished  to  be  very 
active  in  helping  his  mother  Pierrette 
by  putting  little  pieces  of  dry  wood 
in  the  fire,  while  she  was  soaking  the 
clothes  in  lye,  a  plank  of  the  big  tub 
gave  way  all  at  once,  and  the  boiling 
water  floated  around  the  room,  and 
only  stopped  within  half  a  foot  of  the 
child,  who  might  have  been  drowned 
and  scalded,  in  less  time  than  it  takes 
to  say  it.  Pierrette  for  two  entire 
days  was  so  overcome  she  could 
speak  of  nothing  else. 

In  the  same  manner,  once,  when 


Ragaud  carried  the  little  fellow  with 
him  to  the  fields,  he  amused  him  by 
placing  him  on  one  of  the  oxen  ;  bt  t 
the  animal,  tormented  by  the  flies, 
shook  his  head  so  roughly  that  his 
rider,  about  as  high  as  your  boot,  was 
thrown  on  the  ground  ;  but  before  any- 
one could  run  to  assist  him  he  was 
already  standing,  red,  not  with  fear, 
but  with  anger,  and  quickly  revenged 
himself  on  the  beast  by  striking  him 
with  a  willow-wand  that  he  used 
for  a  whip,  and  which  he  had  not  let 
go  in  his  fall.  Ragaud  was  terribly 
frightened  at  the  time,  but  afterwards 
proudly  related  the  adventure,  and 
said  to  his  neighbors  that  his  son, 
Jean  Louis,  would  be  as  brave  a  man 
as  General  Hoche,  the  hero  of  the 
war  of  La  Vendee,  and  who,  accord- 
ing to  the  old  men  of  the  neighbor- 
hood, never  in  his  lifetime  feared 
either  man  or  beast. 

As  for  the  resemblance  to  General 
Hoche,  Pierrette  cared  precious  little, 
not  being  the  least  warlike  by  nature. 
Truth  to  say,  I  scarcely  believe  she 
knew  precisely  who  was  this  very 
great  personage,  notwithstanding  his 
immense  renown  in  the  province ; 
therefore,  she  simply  contented  her- 
self with  having  a  Mass  of  thanksgiv- 
ing said  in  S.  Sylvain's  Chapel,  think- 
ing that  his  protection  was  worth 
more  than  all  the  vanities  of  this  world. 

The  great  love  of  this  good  house- 
hold for  the  little  orphan  increas- 
ed day  by  day.  Pierrette  and  her 
husband  accustomed  themselves  to 
call  him  "  My  son"  so  often  and  so 
sincerely  that  I  do  believe  they  real- 
ly ended  by  fancying  it  was  so. 
The  neighbors  could  do  no  less  than 
they;  so  that  every  where  and  by 
every  one  he  was  called  the  Ragauds' 
son — so  true  it  is  that  custom  often 
takes  away  reflection. 

From  that  grew  the  idea  that  this 
little  mite  would  one  day  be  the  big 
man  of  the  neighborhood;  and  those 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


who  thought  they  were  making  a 
wise  discovery,  in  supposing  it  would 
be  thus,  fell  into  the  intentions  of  the 
Ragauds,  as  surely  as  the  brook  flows 
into  the  river ;  for  at  this  same  time, 
one  autumn  evening,  when  the  fire 
burnt  brightly  on  the  hearth,  Ragaud, 
seated  at  table  opposite  his  good 
wife,  commenced  all  at  once  to  com- 
pliment her  talent  for  housekeeping, 
praising  everything  around  him,  from 
the  walls  and  window-panes,  glisten- 
ing with  cleanliness,  to  the  chests 
and  benches,  newly  waxed  once  a 
month.  He  took  pleasure  in  recall- 
ing his  great  happiness  during  the  past 
twenty  years,  attributing  all  his  bless- 
ings, after  God,  to  the  account  of  Pier- 
rette's virtues  ;  and  as,  like  the  thread 
in  a  needle,  Jean  Louis  was  sitting  be- 
tween them,  eating  his  soup,  he  seized 
him  in  his  arms,  and  tossed  him  up 
three  times  nearly  to  the  rafters. 

"  You  see,  my  son,"  said  he,  re- 
seating himself,  and  still  keeping  the 
boy  on  his  knees,  "  you  drew  a 
good  number  in  the  lottery ;  for 
although  you  came  to  us  like  the 
down  off  the  thistle,  you  have,  never- 
theless, a  mother  such  as  cannot  be 
found  in  a  hundred  leagues ;  and  as 
for  your  father,  my  brave  fellow,  he 
will  leave  you  enough  crowns  to  make 
you  as  respected  in  life  as  though  you 
were  a  prefect." 

"  Happily,"  replied  the  wise  Pier- 
rette, "  the  little  one  is  not  old  enough 
to  understand  what  you  are  talking 
about ;  for  this,  my  dear  husband, 
is  a  very  improper  speech  for  the 
child's  ears.  We  would  nil  him 
with  vanity,  and  not  only  does  pride 
offend  the  good  God,  but  it  renders 
a  man  very  disagreeable  to  those 
around  him." 

"  You  are  always  right,"  replied 
Ragaud,  without  taking  offence ; 
*  but  a  good  fire,  a  good  wife,  money 
honestly  earned,  and  new  cider — 


nothing  like  these  for  untying  the 
tongue  and  making  it  a  little  too 
long.  Come,  go  to  bed,  my  Jeannet, 
kiss  your  parents,  and  say  your  pray- 
ers well ;  to-morrow  we  will  go  to 
gather  the  thatch  in  the  fields  near 
Ordonniers,  and  if  you  only  bring 
me  as  much  as  will  fill  your  apron, 
you  shall  have  two  cents  on  Sunday 
to  buy  a  gingerbread." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Pierrette,  laugh- 
ing, "  that  will  be  a  fortune  which 
will  not  make  him  too  vain." 

A  little  while  afterwards,  when  they 
were  alone,  the  conversation  was  re- 
commenced, but  they  proceeded  regu- 
larly about  the  business,  and,  finally, 
debated  the  question  as  to  how  the  will 
should  be  drawn,  according  to  law, 
so  as  to  leave  Muiceron  to  the  child. 
The  difficulty  was  that  Ragaud  knew 
very  little  about  writing  in  any  shape, 
and  Pierrette  nothing  at  all.  They 
talked  away,  without  making  any  pro- 
gress, far  into  the  night,  and  at  last 
acknowledged  they  would  have  to 
finish  where  they  should  have  begun, 
namely,  by  going  next  day  to  con- 
sult Master  Perdreau,  the  notary  of 
Val-Saint,  on  the  subject.  There- 
upon, they  went  off  well  pleased  to 
sleep  in  their  big  bed,  with  the  canopy 
of  yellow  serge ;  and  as  the  next 
morning  the  work  of  the  thatching 
pressed,  on  account  of  the  rains  which 
were  about  to  commence,  Ragaud 
postponed  his  trip  to  another  day. 

Now,  the  good  God,  who  has 
his  own  designs,  permitted  that  it 
should  be  entirely  otherwise  from 
what  these  good  people  had  intend- 
ed, and  in  a  manner  so  astonishing 
that  no  one,  no  matter  how  wise, 
could  have  foreseen  it;  for  La  Ra- 
gaude,  who  had  nearly  completed  her 
forty-second  year,  became  the  follow- 
ing year  the  mother  of  a  beautiful 
little  girl,  who  was  most  fondly  wel- 
comed by  the  delighted  parents. 


i6 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


v. 

THOSE  who  are  fond  of  singular 
events  in  this  world  had  here  a  chance 
to  be  satisfied ;  for,  certainly,  this 
affair  surpassed  anything  in  the  or- 
dinary run.  Pierrette  quickly  recov- 
ered, and  nursed  her  little  one  with- 
out fatigue.  Far  from  becoming 
even  the  least  pale  or  thin,  it  was 
remarked,  even  by  the  envious — and 
there  are  always  some  of  the  tribe 
around  the  happy — that  she  was 
rejuvenated,  fresh  as  a  cherry,  and 
the  baby  in  her  arms  made  her  resem- 
ble the  good  S.  Anne,  mother  of  our 
Blessed  Lady,  whose  chapel  was 
near  our  parish  church. 

Besides,  the  great  esteem  felt  for 
the  Ragauds,  their  charity,  honesty, 
and  well-known  piety,  caused  it  to  be 
acknowledged — and  it  was  true — that 
this  new  blessing,  the  choicest  and 
most  unexpected  they  could  have 
desired,  was  the  recompense  of  the 
Lord  God  on  account  of  little  Jean- 
Louis.  M.  le  Cure  said  it  to  who- 
ever would  listen  to  him  ;  and,  as  we 
have  seen  he  was  fond  of  repeating 
proverbs,  he  did  not  fail  to  add  :  "  If 
there  is  one  truth  that  each  and 
every  one  of  us  can  prove  if  he  wishes, 
it  is  '  that  a  good  action  is  never  lost? 
Now,  if  this  is  always  true  in  regard 
to  men,  judge  if  we  should  believe  it 
when  the  good  God,  all-powerful,  is 
our  creditor !" 

M.  le  Marquis  de  Val-Saint  was 
the  first  and  most  sincere  in  rejoicing 
at  the  happiness  of  his  good  farmers. 
Mademoiselle,  his  daughter,  asked  to 
be  godmother,  and  had  made  under 
her  own  eyes,  by  her  maids,  a  complete 


outfit  of  fine  Holland  linen,  of  w  tich 
all  the  little  garments  were  scalloped, 
embroidered,  and  trimmed  with  lace 
such   as  are    only   displayed    in  the 
shop-windows  of  the  city. 

M.  le  Marquis  naturally  stood  god- 
father with  mademoiselle,  and,  not  to 
be  behind  her  in  presents,  ordered  that, 
on  the  day  of  the  baptism,  there  should 
be  feasting  and  village-dances  on  the 
lawn  before  the  chateau. 

It  was  a  day  to  be  remembered  in 
the  neighborhood.  As  for  the  eating, 
singing,  and  laughter,  you  can  well 
think  nothing  was  wanting ;  they 
spoke  of  it  for  months  afterwards, 
Only  one  person  wore  a  rather  long 
face,  and  that  was  our  cure  /  not  that 
he  was  ever  the  enemy  of  pleasure 
and  enjoyment,  but  that,  contrary  to 
his  advice,  M.  le  Marquis  had  three 
casks  of  old  wine,  reserved  for  his 
own  table,  tapped  ;  and  the  conse- 
quence was  that,  out  of  two  hundred 
persons  present,  men,  women,  and 
children,  not  one,  towards  twilight, 
was  able  to  walk  straight  on  his  legs. 

Apart  from  that,  everything  passed 
off  splendidly ;  and,  to  conclude,  I  will 
tell  you  that  they  had  awaited  the 
complete  recovery  of  Mother  Pier- 
rette, so  that  she  might  be  present 
at  the  celebration  with  her  little  girl 
in  her  arms  ;  which,  to  my  mind,  was 
the  prettiest  part  of  the  show. 

The  little  Ragaudine  had  three 
beautiful  names — Nicole-Eveline,  af- 
ter M.  le  Marquis  and  mademoiselle, 
her  god-parents ;  and  Jeanne,  in  ho- 
nor of  our  great  S.  John  the  Baptist, 
on  whose  feast  she  had  the  good  for- 
tune to  be  born.  One  fact,  which 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


would  have  touched  devout  hearts 
if  they  had  known  it,  was  that  little 
Jean-Louis  had  also  come  into  the 
world  on  S.  John's  day,  four  years 
before.  M.  le  Cure,  who  had  it  from 
poor  Catharine,  but  who  could  not 
breathe  a  word  of  it,  was  nevertheless 
so  inspired  by  the  thought  that  he 
made  at  the  baptism  a  speech  which 
•  drew  all  the  handkerchiefs  out  of  the 
pockets ;  and  if  I  have  one  regret,  it 
is  that  I  cannot  give  a  full  report  of 
his  touching  words.  But  I  was  not 
born  at  that  time,  and  my  father, 
from  his  great  age,  had  forgotten 
them  when  he  related  this  story  to 
me. 

If  you  fancy  that  this  event  affect- 
ed in  the  least  degree  the  condition 
of  Jean-Louis,  you  are  vastly  mista- 
ken. True,  there  was  no  longer 
thought  of  his  inheriting  Muiceron  ; 
but  the  tenderness  and  care  of  his  good 
parents  were  the  same  afterwards  as 
before.  Pierrette  would  have  thought 
it  a  sin  to  have  acted  otherwise ;  for 
she  was  always  the  first  to  say  :  "  It 
was  the  boy's  guardian  angel  that 
obtained  for  me  my  little  girl  from 
the  good  God."  Ragaud  thought  the 
same  as  his  wife,  but  was  a  little  more 
anxious  than  she  about  the  temporal 
prospects  of  the  boy.  It  was  evident 
that,  between  the  fear  of  injuring 
his  daughter,  and  the  dread  of  leav- 
ing Jeannet  in  want,  his  good  heart 
did  not  know  which  side  to  turn. 
Finally,  in  his  embarrassment,  he  de- 
termined to  consult  M.  le  Cure ;  and 
the  good  pastor,  who  had  always  an 
answer  ready,  solved  the  difficulty  in 
fifteen  minutes'  conversation.  Ac- 
cording to  his  advice,  it  would  suffice 
to  place  aside  every  year  a  small  sum, 
drawn  from  the  harvest  of  such  and 
such  a  field,  and  never  to  touch  eith- 
er capital  or  interest.  In  that  way, 
before  twenty  years,  Master  Jean- 
Louis  would  find  himself,  without 
any  injury  to  the  little  girl,  master  of 


a.  nice  little  treasure,  and  capable,  in 
his  turn,  of  being  a  land-owner.  This 
affair  settled,  Ragaud  returned  home 
perfectly  satisfied,  and  told  the  ,vhole 
story  to  Pierrette,  who  highly  approv- 
ed of  the  step. 

Thus,  instead  of  one  child  at  Mui- 
ceron, there  were  two,  and  that  was 
all  the  difference.  The  little  things 
grew  up  calling  themselves  brother 
and  sister,  there  being  nothing  to 
make  them  doubt  but  that  it  was 
really  so.  Never  were  quarrelling 
or  bad  words  heard  between  them. 
Ragaud  often  repeated  to  Jeannet 
that,  as  he  was  the  eldest,  he  should 
live  patiently  and  amicably  with  his 
young  sister;  and  Jeannet,  from  his 
gentle  heart  and  natural  sweetness 
of  disposition,  easily  put  the  counsel 
in  practice. 

It  is  commonly  said  that  girls  are 
more  forward  than  boys,  as  much  in 
body  as  in  mind ;  and  another  proof 
of  the  truth  of  this  remark  was  €•  i- 
dent  as  the  Ragaud  children  grew 
up.  At  six  years  old,  the  little  girl 
was  so  bright,  so  cunning,  so  bold,  and 
had  such  a  strong  constitution,  you 
would  have  thought  her  the  twin- 
sister  of  Jean-Louis ;  but  with  all 
that,  there  was  no  resemblance,  either 
in  face  or  disposition,  even  though 
they  say  that,  by  living  together,  peo- 
ple often  grow  to  look  alike.  Jean- 
ne Ragaud  had  very  light  hair,  was- 
joyous  and  petulant,  a  little  quick- 
tempered and  rough  in  her  actions, 
like  her  father ;  Jean  had  a  thought- 
ful look,  and  although  he  was  always 
ready  to  play,  his  tastes  were  rather 
quiet.  They  both  loved  to  lead 
the  sheep  to  pasture  in  the  field 
near  La  Range;  but  when  it  was 
the  turn  of  the  little  boy,  you  would 
have  said  the  sheep  took'  care  of 
themselves,  so  quiet  was  it  around 
them  ;  and  the  reason  of  this  was, 
that  the  shepherd  was  stretched  in 
the  wood,  in  the  shade  of  an  old 


IS 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


willow-tree,  face  to  the  sky,  watch- 
ing the  clouds  pass  over  his  head. 
Very  different  was  it  when  Jeannette, 
armed  with  a  switch,  left  the  farm, 
driving  the  flock  before  her  in  the 
noisiest  style;  she  drove  off  the  dog, 
ran  faster  than  he  after  the  sheep 
which  tried  to  get  away  from  her; 
and  if  she  ever  sat  down,  it  was  only 
because  she  was  forced  to  do  so 
from  want  of  breath.  As  for  the 
clouds,  little  did  she  care  for  all  that 
Jean  pretended  to  see  in  them — the 
beautiful  and  moving  things  that 
kept  him  lying  on  the  grass  for  entire 
hours,  silently  gazing  with  fixed  eyes 
on  the  blue  sky  above  him.  She 
obstinately  declared  that  a  cloudy 
sky  pleased  her  more  than  one  en- 
tirely blue,  because  generally  clouds 
brought  rain  ;  and  nothing,  according 
to  her  taste,  was  more  delightful  than 
a  good  soaking,  which  obliged  the 
shepherdess  and  sheep  to  return 
together  at  full  gallop  to  the  house, 
running  and  paddling  through  the 
pools  of  muddy  water. 

This  divergence  of  character  grew 
more  and  more  perceptible  every 
day,  and  led  Pierrette  to  exclaim : 

"  Come  next  S.  Martin's  day,  and 
if  this  continues,  my  little  chickens, 
I  will  have  you  change  clothes ; 
for,  in  truth,  I  begin  to  see  that  I 
was  mistaken,  and  that  Jeannette 
is  the  boy,  and  Louisieau  the  little 
girl." 

These  words  did  not  fall  on  the 
ear  of  a  deaf  person ;  for,  after  that, 
La  Ragaudine  became  bolder  and 
more  resolute  than  ever.  She  dom- 
ineered over  father  and  mother,  who 
were  weak  enough  to  be  amused  by 
it;  and  as  for  Jean-Louis,  when  he 
ventured  to  offer  a  little  friendly  ad- 
vice, she  replied  proudly,  with  her 
chin  in  the  air : 

"  Hold  your  tongue;  mother  said  I 
was  the  boy. " 

Thereupon  good  Jeannet  was  terri- 


bly confused,  and  could  not  find 
words  to  reply. 

Soon  the  time  came  when  they 
must  think  of  school.  In  those  days, 
there  were  no  parish  schools  taught 
by  the  Sisters  and  Christian  Brothers, 
as  now.  Our  good  curt,  through 
pure  zeal,  had  taken  charge  of  the 
boys'  education,  and  Germaine  did 
the  same  for  the  girls.  Thus  the 
Ragaud  children  did  not  have  to 
accustom  themselves  to  new  faces 
in  this  little  change  of  their  everyday 
life.  But  old  Germaine  could  not 
say  as  much;  for  until  then,  having 
only  taught  the  village  girls,  who 
were  very  obedient,  even  though  a 
little  stupid,  she  thought  the  devil 
himself  possessed  the  school  the 
day  that  Jeannette  put  foot  in  it. 
What  tricks  and  drolleries  this  little 
witch  of  eight  years  invented  to  dis- 
tract the  others  would  be  difficult 
to  enumerate.  Threats,  scolding, 
shameful  punishments,  had  no  effect. 
At  the  end  of  a  fortnight,  she  had 
received  all  the  bad  marks  of  the 
class,  and  the  fool's  cap  appeared  to 
be  her  ordinary  head-dress,  so  that 
the  greatest  wonder  was  if  she  by 
chance  was  seen  without  it. 

Jean-Louis,  in  the  adjoining  room, 
accomplished  wonders.  In  less  than 
four  months,  he  learned  to  read  and 
write;  as  for  his  catechism,  he  knew 
it  so  well  he  could  explain  it  like  a 
priest.  Never  did  he  go  to  sleep 
without  knowing  his  lessons  for  the 
next  day ;  so  that  M.  le  Cure  held 
him  in  high  favor,  and  taught  him 
many  things  that  are  found  in  books, 
but  which  are  not  generally  known 
in  the  country. 

Thus  it  turned  out  that  all  the 
praises  and  dainties  fell  to  the  lot  of 
Jeannet  as  a  reward  for  his  good  con- 
duct. Every  Thursday  he  returned 
to  the  farm,  holding  up  with  both 
hands  the  front  of  his  blouse,  filled 
with  fruit  and  candies  of  Germaine's 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


manufacture.  Jeannette  kept  close 
to  his  side,  not  at  all  displeased  at 
having  nothing — you  can  well  imag- 
ine why.  The  cunning  monkey  knew 
that  hardly  would  they  have  turned 
on  their  heels,  before  Jean-Louis 
would  open  his  blouse,  and  say, 
"  Here,  little  pet,  choose.'' 

So  that,  without  giving  herself  the 
least  trouble,  that  imp  of  a  Jeannette 
feasted  at  will  on  the  choicest  mor- 
sels. Our  curt  was  not  long  duped  ; 
without  scolding  Jean-Louis,  who  by 
acting  in  tl.at  manner  only  proved 
his  good  heart,  he  warned  Germaine 
that  she  must  try  some  other 
means  of  correcting  the  headstrong 
Jeannette,  who  could  not  be  allowed 
to  grow  up  with  such  perverse  habits. 
Germaine,  very  much  hurt,  replied 
that  she  had  used  every  punishment 
unsuccessfully,  except  whipping,  which 
she  had  never  dared. 

"Well,"  said  the  cure,  "the  next 
time  she  misbehaves,  whip  her,  Ger- 
maine. I  authorize  you  to  do  it." 

They  had  not  to  wait  long.  One 
very  rainy  day,  Jeannette  managed 
to  arrive  the  last  at  school,  and  seeing 
all  the  children's  wooden  shoes  and 
leather  leggings  ranged  outside  of  the 
door,  she  gathered  up  the  greater 
part  of  them  in  her  skirt,  and  ran  off 
to  the  well,  that  she  might  throw 
them  to  the  bottom,  running  the  risk 
of  tumbling  in  herself  at  the  same 
time.  Germaine,  who  was  still  light- 
footed,  and  feared  something  wrong 
was  contemplated,  spied  her  through 
the  window,  rushed  after  her,  and 
caught  her  just  in  time  to  prevent 
the  act. 

"  This  is  the  way,"  cried  she,  holding 
the  young  one  tightly  by  the  arm — 
'  this  is  the  way  you,  wicked  good-for- 
nothing  child,  employ  your  time,  in- 
stead of  learning  your  lessons  !" 

For  the  first  time,  Jeannette,  in 
spite  of  her  daring  spirit,  was  so  over- 
come she  could  not  say  a  word  in 


defence.  She  saw  quickly  that  she 
would  be  well  punished,  and  returned 
to  the  class  very  downcast. 

Germaine  commenced  by  making 
her  pupil  kneel  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  and  then,  seating  herself  in  her 
straw  arm-chair,  with  a  severe  and 
troubled  look,  related  the  whole  af- 
fair, taking  care  to  make  it  appear  in 
its  worst  light. 

"  Now,"  added  she,  looking  around 
at  her  little  audience,  who  showed  a 
just  indignation,  "  if  I  ask  you,  my 
children,  what  punishment  Jeanne 
Ragaud  deserves  for  having  attempt- 
ed to  enjoy  herself  in  such  a  mali- 
cious and  shameful  manner,  you  will 
doubtless  answer  that  I  should  ex- 
pel her  from  the  class;  but  do  you 
think  that  would  be  a  great  sorrow 
for  a  girl  so  careless  of  her  duties  ? 
No,  no,  I  say  that  would  only  please 
her;  and  therefore,  Jeanne  Ragaud, 
you  will  immediately  receive  a  severe 
chastisement,  but  which,  nevertheless, 
is  not  equal  to  your  great  fault." 

Thereupon  Germaine  readjusted 
her  spectacles,  drew  from  the  bottom 
of  her  big  work-bag  a  leather  whip 
with  several  thongs,  and  Jeannette, 
more  dead  than  alive  with  anger  and 
shame,  received  in  full  view  the  well- 
deserved  punishment. 

She  neither  cried,  nor  wept,  nor 
made  any  protestation,  not  even  an 
attempt  to  defend  herself;  but  she 
did  not  ask  pardon  either,  and  sat 
straight  up  on  her  bench,  whiter  than 
Mother  Germaine's  cap.  It  was  the 
only  day  they  had  ever  seen  her 
quiet  and  good. 

Towards  evening,  Jeannet,  as  usual, 
took  his  post  where  he  could  meet 
her,  that  they  might  return  home  to- 
gether; but  great  was  his  surprise 
to  see  the  little  thing  advance  with 
measured  steps,  instead  of  running 
and  bounding  according  to  her  cus- 
tom. What  astonished  him  still  fur- 
ther was  that  she  neither  spoke  nor 


20 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


laughed.  Her  little  face  was  all 
changed ;  but  whether  from  grief  or 
anger  he  could  not  discover.  It  end- 
ed by  making  him  feel  very  anxious, 
as  he  feared  she  was  ill. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  he  asked  gen- 
tly. "  Surely,  Jeannette,  something 
troubles  you  ;  for  this  is  the  first  time 
in  my  life  I  have  ever  seen  you 
sad." 

The  child  turned  away  her  head, 
and  pretended  to  look  at  the  trees. 

"  You  will  not  answer  me,"  con- 
tinued Jean-Louis ;  "  and  yet  I  only 
question  you  from  pure  love,  not 
from  curiosity.  When  one  is  trou- 
bled, it  is  a  relief  to  speak  to  a  friend. 
Am  I  not  strong  enough  to  defend 
you  by  tongue  and  arm,  in  case  you 
need  it  ?" 

"  Nothing  is  the  matter,"  replied 
Jeannette.  "  What  do  you  fancy 
ails  me?  Let  us  hurry,  it  is 'grow- 
ing late ;  the  crows  are  beginning  to 
flutter  around  the  steeple." 

"  I  am  not  thinking  now  about 
the  crows,  nor  you  either,  Jeannet- 
te," said  he,  taking  in  his  own  her 
little,  trembling  hand;  "and  as  for 
going  faster,  that  is  not  possible ;  we 
are  already  walking  at  such  a  rate 
we  can  scarcely  breathe." 

Jeanne  stopped  short,  and  quickly 
drew  away  her  hand. 

"  Then,  don't  go  any  further,"  cri- 
ed she  in  a  rebellious  tone. 

"  Come,  now,  be  good ;  we  can't 
think  of  stopping  here.  Why  do  you 
speak  to  me  so  roughly?  Don't 
you  know  that  I  am  your  friend  and 
your  brother  ?" 

"When  you  will  know  what  has 
happened,"  replied  she  impatiently, 
"  well— then— then— " 

"Then  I  will  console  you  as 
well  as  I  can,  my  Jeannette." 

"Oh!  yes,  but  you  can't  do  it, 
Jean-Louis;  in  my  trouble  nobody 
can  console  me." 

"Let  us  see,"  said  he. 


"  There  is  nothing  to  see,"  she 
cried.  "  I  won't  tell  you  anything." 

"Then  it  will  be  difficult,"  he  re- 
plied sadly.  "  Jeannette,  if  I  were 
unhappy,  I  would  not  make  such  a 
fuss  about  telling  you." 

They  continued  on  in  silence. 
When  they  reached  the  top  of  the 
hill  in  the  meadow  of  Fauche,  from 
which  could  be  seen  the  buildings 
of  Muiceron,  Jeannette  suddenly 
stopped,  and  all  the  anger  heaped 
up  in  her  little  heart  melted  into 
sobs. 

"  What  will  mother  say  when  she 
sees  you  return  with  red  eyes  ?"  said 
good  Jeannet,  terribly  distressed.  "  I 
beg  of  you,  my  darling,  speak  to  me ; 
you  would  never  cry  like  this  for 
nothing." 

"  O  Jean-Louis !  I  am  so  un- 
happy," she  cried,  throwing  herself 
in  his  arms;  "and  if  they  make  me 
go  back  to  school,  I  will  certainly 
die." 

"  Now,  stop ;  don't  cry  any  more. 
You  shall  not  go  back,"  said  he,  kiss- 
ing her;  "  for  none  of  us  wish  to  see 
you  die." 

Jeannette  this  time  did  not  need 
urging,  but  frankly  related  all  her 
wrongs  and  the  affair  of  the  whip. 
Jean-Louis  for  the  moment  was  so 
furious  he  would  willingly  have 
beaten  Germaine ;  but  after  a  little 
reflection,  he  thought  that  after  all 
the  correction  was  not  altogether 
unjust. 

He  spoke  wisely  to  the  little  thing, 
and  succeeded  in  calming  her  in  a 
measure;  but  he  could  not  make  her 
change  her  mind  about  returning 
to  school.  On  this  point  it  was  as 
difficult  to  make  an  impression  as 
on  a  stone  wall. 

"  What  will  we  do  ?"  said  he.  "  For 
you  see,  Jeannette,  father  has  al- 
ready received  so  many  complaints 
about  you  he  will  most  assuredly 
not  consent  to  let  you  remain  idle 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron 


21 


at  the  farm.  To-morrow  we  will 
leave  without  saying  a  word.  Do 
what  I  tell  you;  say  your  prayers 
well  to-night ;  and  as,  after  all,  you 
were  a  good  deal  in  fault,  the  best 
thing  will  be  to  ask  Germaine's  par- 
don, which  she  will  willingly  grant." 

"  I  would  rather  run  off  into  the 
woods,"  cried  the  rebellious  child. 
"  I  would  rather  be  eaten  up  by 
the  wolves." 

"  No,  no,  that  is  foolish,"  said  he 
"  they  would  hunt  for  you,  and  the 
woods  around  Val-Saint  are  not 
so  big  but  what  they  could  find 
you;  and  then  everybody  would 
know  your  fault,  and  father  would 
be  so  angry." 

"  Very  well,"  said  she  resolutely. 
"  I  will  go  see  my  godmother." 

"  That  can  easily  be  done,"  repli- 
ed Jeannet ;  "  and  it  is  a  very  good 
idea.  Dry  up  your  tears  now;  to- 
morrow morning  we  will  go  together 
and  see  mademoiselle ;  ?he  will 
know  what  to  do." 

This  agreement  made,  Jeanne's 
great  sorrow  was  quickly  dissipated. 
She  recovered  her  good  humor,  her 
lively  manner,  and  was  as  full  of  fun 
and  frolic  as  ever.  The  grief  of  child- 
ren is  like  the  clouds  in  the  sky — a 
mere  nothing  causes  them,  a  nothing 
scatters  them  ;  and  the  sun  appears 
more  beautiful  than  ever  after  a 
shower.  Jean  and  Jeannette  reach- 
ed the  house,  running  together  hand 
in  hand.  Neither  Ragaud  nor  Pier- 
rette suspected  anything ;  and  nev- 
ertheless, that  night,  without  any 
one  even  dreaming  of  it,  the  whim 
of  a  little  eight-year-old  witch  led  to 
many  new  events  which  changed 
the  life  of  our  good  friends,  as  you 
will  see  in  the  end. 

VI. 

It  is  time  that  I  should  tell  you 
about  the  chateau  of  our  village,  and 
of  its  worthy  lord,  M.  le  Marquis  de 


Val-Saint.  The  chateau  was  an  im- 
posing edifice,  so  high  and  wide,  with 
such  thick  walls,  and  so  well  sur- 
rounded with  deep  ditches  filled  with 
running  water,  that  my  father  truly 
said  such  a  building  had  nothing  to 
fear  from  either  time  or  man.  Before 
the  great  Revolution,  our  lords  lived 
in  great  style.  I  have  heard  it  said 
that  one  of  them,  who  was  a  great 
warrior,  could  lead  into  the  field  more 
than  a  thousand  soldiers,  all  of  them 
his  tenants,  armed  and  equipped  at 
his  own  expense.  What  makes  me 
believe  this  was  not  false  is  the  fact 
that  there  still  remains  in  front  of  the 
chateau  a  great  lawn,  flanked  on  each 
side  by  buildings  of  such  length 
they  must  surely  have  been  used  for 
barracks.  But  as  to  that,  he  that 
chooses  may  believe  ;  I  cannot  posi- 
tively affirm  it,  and,  besides,  it  has 
very  little  bearing  on  the  story  of 
Jean-Louis. 

As  was  to  have  been  expected,  our 
lords  were  driven  away  at  the  time 
when  the  masters  had  to  fly.  that 
their  valets  could  take  their  places. 
Thank  God !  this  fine  condition  of 
things  did  not  last  long.  At  the  end 
of  a  few  years,  the  legitimate  owner 
of  the  chateau  of  Val-Saint,  who  was 
a  little  child  at  the  time  the  family 
left  France,  was  put  in  possession  of 
his  property.  He  afterwards  mar- 
ried, and  had  an  only  daughter,  the 
godmother  of  Jeannette. 

Never  was  there  seen  a  happier 
family  or  better  Christians;  from 
father  to  son,  they  were  models.  M. 
le  Marquis  always  remembered  the 
time  when  he  was  in  poverty  and 
exile,  obliged  to  earn  his  bread  as  a 
simple  workman.  It  made  him  kind 
and  compassionate  to  the  poor,  and, 
consequently,  he  was  adored  by  all 
around  him ;  and  I  have  heard  that 
Madame  la  Marquise  even  surpassed 
him  in  excellence  and  charity.  Fre- 
quently in  the  winter  she  was  seen 


22 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


visiting  the  cottages,  followed  by  her 
servants  carrying  bundles  of  wood 
and  bowls  of  soap,  which  she  loved 
to  distribute  herself  to  the  most 
needy. 

Contrary  to  many  great  ladies,  who 
flock  to  the  city  for  amusement  and 
gaiety  in  the  winter,  she  made  her 
husband  promise  that  they  would 
remain  at  Val-Saint  during  the  entire 
year;  for,  said  she,  "in  summer 
nearly  every  one  has  what  is  neces- 
sary ;  but  in  winter  there  is  much  suf- 
fering among  the  poor,  and  if  we  are 
not  at  home  to  succor  and  relieve  the 
indigent,  who  will  replace  us  ?"  You 
will  agree  with  me  that  she  spoke  as 
a  true  Christian ;  and  you  will  also 
allow  that  if  all  our  fine  ladies 
thought  and  acted  in  like  manner, 
they  would  gain  in  the  benedictions 
of  the  poor  what  they  might  lose  in 
pleasure,  and  it  would  certainly  be 
for  the  best.  Between  ourselves,  M. 
le  Marquis  did  not  give  in  very  wil- 
lingly to  this  proposition ;  it  was  not 
that  the  dear  man  was  fond  of  foolish 
dissipation ;  but  after  passing  through 
so  much  trouble,  and  having  the 
happiness  to  see  his  true  king  once 
more  on  the  French  throne,  he  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  of  going  to 
Paris  occasionally  to  salute  him,  and 
was  very  desirous  that  madame 
should  appear  at  court.  She  always 
excused  herself  on  account  of  her 
delicate  health ;  and  this  reason,  alas ! 
was  only  too  true.  Besides,  she  was 
quick-witted,  like  all  women,  and, 
without  saying  anything,  saw  that  a 
new  revolution  was  not  far  off.  M. 
le  Marquis,  on  the  contrary,  boldly 
maintained  that,  as  his  dear  masters 
had  only  returned  by  a  miracle, 
they  would  not  be  off  very  soon 
again.  1830  proved  that  our  good 
lady  was  right.  After  that,  there  was 
no  further  talk  about  going  to  Paris  ; 
but  it  was  very  sad  at  the  chateau. 
M.  le  Marquis  became  gloomy  and 


half  sick  from  grief,  and  rnadame, 
who  had  not  been  well  for  a  long 
time,  felt  that  the  blow  would  kill 
her;  in  fact,  she  died  shortly  after- 
wards, leaving  a  little  daughter,  ten 
years  old,  and  poor  monsieur,  very 
lonely  in  his  fine  chateau. 

As  he  feared  God,  he  knew  that  a 
brave  Christian  should  not  sink  under 
trials.  By  degrees  he  appeared  re- 
signed to  his  fate,  and  resumed  his 
ordinary  occupations.  Besides  the 
care  of  his  large  estate,  he  hunted, 
fished,  and  visited  his  good  neighbors. 
He  gave  large  sums  for  the  resto- 
ration of  our  church  and  several 
chapels  in  the  neighborhood.  All 
this,  and  his  great  watchfulness  over 
the  peasants  who  were  his  tenants, 
made  his  time  pass  usefully.  The 
evenings  were  rather  wearisome.  Our 
curd  noticed  it,  and  frequently  visited 
the  chateau  towards  dusk,  so  that  he 
could  entertain  him  with  the  little 
news  of  the  district,  and  read  the 
public  journals  to  him.  They  dis- 
cussed politics.  When  I  say  dis- 
cussed, it  is  only  a  way  of  speaking, 
as  the  curt  and  his  lord  always  were 
of  the  same  opinion ;  but  they  could 
regret  the  past  together,  and  build  up 
new  hopes  for  the  future ;  and  in  that 
manner  bed-time  came  before  they 
knew  it. 

Little  mademoiselle  was  brought  up 
very  seriously,  without  companions 
of  her  own  age,  or  any  amusements 
suitable  to  her  rank.  She  was  under 
the  care  of  an  old  governess,  named 
Dame  Berthe,  who  was  tall  and  se- 
vere in  appearance,  very  well  educa- 
ted, but  so  soft-hearted  in  regard  to 
her  pupil  she  always  said  atnen  to  all 
her  caprices,  only  regretting  she  could 
not  guess  them  beforehand. 

M.  le  Marquis  exercised  no  con- 
trol over  his  daughter ;  his  great  con- 
fidence in  Dame  Berthe  made  him 
refer  everything  to  her.  All  that  he 
asked  of  mademoiselle  was  that  she 


The  Farm  of  M nicer  on. 


should  always  look  well  and  happy ; 
and  in  these  two  respects  he  had  every 
reason  to  thank  the  good  God.  As 
for  the  rest,  he  used  to  say  it  would 
take  a  very  skilful  person  to  find  any- 
thing to  reprimand  in  such  a  sweet, 
good  girl;  and  there'he  was  right. 

All  the  petting  in  the  world  could 
not  spoil  such  a  lovely  nature,  and 
every  year  she  became  more  attrac- 
tive. You  may  tell  me  there  was 
nothing  very  wonderful  in  that,  since 
she  had  all  she  desired.  I  will  an- 
swer that,  on  the  contrary,  many  in 
her  place  would  have  become  for 
that  very  reason  wicked  and  disa- 
greeable. But  mademoiselle  inherit- 
ed from  her  departed  mother,  besides 
a  gentle  and  sweet  face,  a  soul  still 
more  gentle  and  sweet.  She  would 
not  have  hurt  a  fly;  her  temper  was 
so  equal  it  resembled  the  tranquil 
water  of  a  lake ;  she  knew  that  she 
was  a  rich  heiress,  and  remained  sim- 
ple in  her  manners,  never  haughty 
to  others,  always  ready  to  be  of  ser- 
vice, and  succeeded  wonderfully  in 
calming  monsieur,  her  father,  who, 
notwithstanding  his  goodness,  was 
liable  sometimes  to  be  carried  away 
with  anger.  Finally,  I  can  say,  with- 
out extravagance,  that  this  last 
daughter  of  our  dear  lords  had,  by 
the  grace  of  God,  all  the  virtues  of 
her  race  united  in  her.  Nevertheless, 
as  nothing  on  earth  is  absolutely  per- 
fect, I  must  add  that  she  had  two 
defects — one  of  body ;  for  when  she 
was  approaching  her  fifteenth  year, 
having  grown  too  fast,  it  was  very 
evident  that  her  spine  was  becom- 
ing curved;  and  notwithstanding  the 
greatest  medical  skill  was  employed, 
she  became  fearfully  crooked.  M. 
le  Marquis  was  greatly  afflicted  ;  but 
as  for  her,  she  quickly  made  her  de- 
cision. 

"  No  one  will  want  me,"  she  said 
sweetly ;  "  and  so,  dear  father,  I  will 
always  remain  with  you." 


This  idea  consoled  her  perfectly. 
Being  lively  and  gay,  she  laughed 
about  her  deformity  so  pleasantly 
that  the  people  of  the  chateau 
ended  by  thinking  it  not  th-e  slight- 
est misfortune,  quite  as  an  acci- 
dent of  the  very  least  importance; 
and,  far  from  no  one  seeking  her 
hand,  the  suitors  came  in  procession 
to  ask  the  honor  of  alliance  with  her. 
She  was  too  keen  not  to  see  that  her 
great  wealth  was  the  principal  cause 
of  their  eagerness,  and  consequently 
refused  all  offers  of  marriage  firmly 
and  decidedly;  and  on  that  point 
the  whole  world  could  not  make  her 
change  her  mind. 

Her  second  defect  was  of  the  heart; 
her  great  good-nature  made  her  weak, 
as  she  never  knew  how  to  refuse 
when  any  one  wept  before  her ;  neith- 
er could  she  deny  herself  anything 
where  her  innocent  whims  and  capri- 
ces were  in  question.  It  was  certain- 
ly a  fault;  for  having  in  her  own 
hands  wealth,  power,  and  no  superior 
to  control  her,  you  can  imagine  that 
her  kindness  of  heart  would  make 
her  liable  to  fall  frequently  in  the 
pathway  of  life,  and  drag  others  after 
her. 

Now  we  will  again  take  up  the 
story  of  the  little  Ragaudins  at  the 
time  when  we  left  them. 

You  will  remember  that  the  foolish 
little  Jeannette  was  resolved  not  to 
return  to  school,  from  shame  of  the 
whipping  she  had  received  that  day, 
and  was  determined  to  go  with  the 
willing  Jean-Louis,  and  complain  to 
her  godmother.  They  left  the 
farm  the  following  morning  at  the 
usual  hour,  passed  right  by  the 
priest's  house,  and  slowly  ascended 
the  slope  before  the  chateau. 

Mademoiselle  had  just  come  in 
from  Mass,  and  was  sitting  in  the 
parlor  of  the  grand  tower  that  over- 
looked the  whole  country.  Dame 
Berthe  was  preparing  her  breakfast ; 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


for  although  there  were  in  the  ante- 
room four  or  five  big  valets,  who 
passed  their  time  in  gossiping  for 
want  of  work,  she  thought  no  one 
but  herself  was  capable  of  pouring 
the  chocolate  into  the  large  silver 
cup,  and  presenting  it  to  her  dear 
mistress.  Mademoiselle,  as  it  hap- 
pened, felt  a  little  bored  that  morning, 
and  gently  reproached  Dame  Berthe 
for  not  having  found  something  to 
amuse  her. 

"  If  I  were  not  eighteen  years  old," 
said  she,  throwing  herself  in  her  big 
arm-chair,  "  1  would  willingly  play 
with  my  doll.  You  have  done  well, 
my  poor  Berthe;  I  feel  like  a  little 
girl,  and  mourn  for  my  playthings. 
What  can  you  invent  to-day  ?  Fa- 
ther went  away  last  evening.  I  am 
too  tired  to  walk ;  tell  me  a  story.  .  ." 

Dame  Berthe  thought  a  moment; 
but  in  regard  to  stories,  she  scarcely 
knew  any  but  those  she  had  told 
and  retold  a  hundred  times.  Mercy 
knows,  that  was  not  astonishing ;  two 
persons  who  are  always  together, 
know  the  same  things,  and  have 
never  anything  new  to  tell  each 
other1. 

Mademoiselle  looked  at  her  gov- 
erness laughingly,  and  took  an  inno- 
cent delight  in  witnessing  her  em- 
barrassment. It  was  just  at  this 
moment  that  the  Ragaud  children 
emerged  from  the  chestnut  grove 
before  the  chateau,  and  advanced 
straight  to  the  bridge  that  led  to  the 
grand  entrance. 

Mademoiselle,  who  was  rather 
near-sighted,  scarcely  distinguished 
the  little  things;  but  she  heard  the 
wooden  shoes,  which  went  click-clack 
on  the  stone  bridge,  and  requested 
Dame  Berthe  to  see  who  it  could  be. 

"  It  is  little  Jeanne  of  Muiceron, 
and  her  brother,  Jean-Louis,  who 
have  doubtless  come  to  make  you  a 
visit,"  she  replied ;  "  for  they  are  in 
their  Sunday  clothes  " 


Here  the  good  lady  was  mistaken ; 
for  Pierrette  held  the  holiday  clothes 
under  lock  and  key,  and  would  not 
let  them  be  worn  on  a  week-day 
without  explanation. 

Mademoiselle  rose  up  joyfully;  she 
dearly  loved  her  god-daughter  and 
all  the  Ragaud  family,  and.  more 
than  that,  in  her  frame  of  mind,  it 
was  an  amusement  that  came  like  a 
gift  from  heaven. 

"  Make  them  come  in,  poor  little 
things,"  said  she  ;  "  and  I  beg  of  you, 
Berthe,  to  run  to  the  kitchen,  and 
order  cakes  and  hot  milk,  as  I  wish 
them  to  breakfast  with  me." 

Jean-Louis  was  the  first  to  enter 
the  parlor.  Jeannette  kept  behind 
him,  much  less  assured  than  you 
would  have  imagined.  Until  now  she 
had  scarcely  ever  seen  her  mistress, 
except  on  Sunday,  when  coming  out 
from  High  Mass.  Twice  a  year,  on 
New  Year's  day  and  the  anniversary 
of  Jeannette's  baptism,  all  the  farm 
came  in  great  ceremony  to  present 
their  respects  to  monsieur  and  made- 
moiselle. Besides  this,  the  visits  to 
the  chateau  were  very  rare ;  and  to 
come  alone,  of  their  own  free  will, 
and  clandestinely,  was  something  en- 
tirely out  of  the  usual  run.  Jeannette 
began  to  understand  all  this,  and  felt 
more  like  crying  than  talking. 

Happily,  mademoiselle  took  the 
thing  quite  naturally,  and  asked  no 
questions.  She  kissed  and  caressed 
her  god-daughter,  seated  her  on  her 
lap,  and  petted  her  so  much  that  for 
the  first  half-hour  the  little  thing  had 
only  permission  to  open  her  mouth 
that  the  bonbons  could  be  put  in. 

She  thus  had  time  to  regain  confi- 
dence, and  Jean-Louis,  who  feared  to 
hear  her  scolded,  recovered  his  spirits. 
Notwithstanding  all  this,  both  were 
slightly  overcome  when  mademoi- 
selle, after  breakfast,  suddenly  asked 
them  if  they  had  not  some  favor  to 
ask,  promising  to  grant  any  request 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


on  account  of  the  trouble  they  had 
taken  in  coming  to  visit  her. 

This  was'  the  critical  moment. 
Jeannet  became  red  with  embarrass- 
ment, and  the  little  girl  appeared  stu- 
pefied. Dame  Berthe  gave  her  a 
slight  tap  on  the  cheek,  to  encourage 
her  not  to  be  ashamed  before  such  a 
good  godmother;  but  that  did  not 
untie  her  tongue. 

"  Speak  now,"  said  Jeannet,  push- 
ing her  with  his  elbow. 

"  Speak  yourself,"  she  replied  in  a 
whisper.  "  I  don't  know  what  to  say." 

"  What  is  it  that  is  so  difficult  to 
obtain  ?"  asked  mademoiselle.  "  Is  it 
something  beyond  my  power  ?" 

"  Oh !  no,  no,"  said  Jean-Louis. 
"  If  mademoiselle  wished,  she  has 
only  to  say  a  word  .  .  ." 

"  I  will  say  it,  my  child ;  but  still, 
I  must  know  what  it  is  about." 

"  Very  well,  mademoiselle,  this  is 
it — Jeanette  does  not  wish  to  return 
to  school." 

"  She  must  be  verylearned,  then,"  re- 
plied mademoiselle,  smiling.  "  Come 
here,  Jeanne;  read  me  a  page  out 
of  this  big  book." 

Only  think  of  the  blank  amaze- 
ment and  terror  of  Jeannette  at  that 
moment !  She  did  not  know  A  from 
B,  and  found  herself  caught  like  a 
mouse  in  a  trap.  One  last  resource 
was  left — it  was  to  burst  into  tears. 
This  was  quickly  done,  and  she  was 
heard  sobbing  behind  her  godmother's 
arm-chair,  where  she  had  hidden 
herself  at  the  first  mention  of  read- 
ing- 
Mademoiselle,  already  very  much 
moved,  profited  by  this  incident,  and 
asked  an  explanation  of  the  whole 
affair,  which  Jeannet  related,  trying 
his  best  to  excuse  the  little  thing. 
Mademoiselle  was  very  much  amused 
at  the  recital,  and  was  weak  enough, 
instead  of  scolding  Jeannette,  to 
praise  her  for  her  spirit.  She  replaced 
her  on  her  lap,  wiped  her  tears,  and, 


without  further  reflection,  decided  the 
case  in  her  favor. 

"  But,"  said  she,  "  I  do  not  wish 
my  god-daughter  to  be  as  ignorant 
as  a  dairy-maid.  Isn't  that  true, 
Jeanne  ?  You  will  nofmake  me  blush 
for  you?  I  don't  want  you  to  go  any 
longer  to  Germaine's  school,  but  it  is 
on  condition  that  you  be  a  good  girl, 
and  learn  to  read  and  write.  I  will 
teach  you  myself;  how  will  you  like 
that  ?" 

"  O  godmother !"  cried  the  little 
one,  enchanted. 

"  Very  well,"  replied  mademoi- 
selle ;  "  then  it  is  all  arranged.  Jean- 
Louis  will  return  to  Muiceron  to  tell 
your  parents,  and  in  future  I  will 
take  care  of  you  and  teach  you." 

And  it  was  thus  that  the  good 
young  lady,  without  understanding 
the  consequence  of  her  act,  in  an 
instant  changed  the  destiny  of 
Jeanne  Ragaud.  Dame  Berthe 
dared  not  object,  although  she  saw 
at  a  glance  there  was  much  to  blame 
in  this  decision.  "  Indeed,  where  the 
goat  is  tied,  there  he  should  browse," 
said  our  curt.  Jeanne,  the  child  of 
peasants,  should  have  remained  a 
peasant,  instead  of  becoming  the 
plaything  of  a  marquise.  But  made- 
moiselle's intention  was  not  bad ;  and, 
for  the  time  being,  to  have  taken  away 
her  distraction  would  have  been  cruel, 
and  Dame  Berthe,  although  very 
wise,  had  not  the  courage  to  do  it. 


VII. 

In  the  village,  every  one  had  his 
own  idea  on  the  subject.  The  Ra- 
gauds  were  happy,  and  rather  proud ; 
M.  le  Cure  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
keeping  his  remarks  for  a  later  pe- 
riod ;  Germaine  was  silent ;  Jean- 
Louis  willingly  sacrificed  the  com- 
pany of  his  little  sister  for  what  he 
thought  her  greater  good;  and,  for 
the  rest  of  the  people,  some  said  it 


26 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


was  foolish,  others  that  the  Ragauds 
were  always  lucky. 

Jeannette  was  puffed  up  with  joy 
and  pride.  It  is  justice  to  say  that 
in  a  little  while  she  became  another 
child;  her  mind  was  so  well  occu- 
pied she  lost  all  her  wilfulness,  de- 
voted herself  to  her  studies,  and  was 
no  longer  disobedient  and  rebellious. 
M.  le  Marquis,  enchanted  to  see  his 
daughter  so  happy  in  her  new  duties, 
cheerfully  approved  of  the  measure, 
and  declared  the  chateau  was  a  dif- 
ferent place  after  this  humming-bird's 
warbling  was  heard  in  the  house. 

As  long  as  the  summer  lasted,  the 
thing  went  on  without  great  incon- 
venience, as  the  little  one  often  went 
home  to  sleep,  and  thus  did  not 
entirely  lose  sight  of  her  first  destiny ; 
but  with  the  bad  weather,  made- 
moiselle feared  she  might  take  cold 
by  being  so  much  exposed,  and  sent 
word  to  the  Ragauds  that  she  would 
keep  her  all  the  time. 

Henceforward  Jeannette  was  treat- 
ed like  a  daughter  of  the  chateau. 
She  had  her  own  little  room,  well 
warmed,  and  a  servant  to  obey  her 
orders;  her  hair  was  braided  in 
tresses  that  hung  below  her  waist, 
which  soon  made  her  discover  that 
she  had  the  longest  and  thickest  hair 
of  any  child  in  the  village.  Her  cos- 
tume was  also  changed.  She  had 
fine  merino  dresses,  prunella  shoes 
with  rosettes,  and  the  calico  apron, 
with  big  pockets,  was  replaced  by  a 
little  silk  affair,  which  only  served  to 
look  coquettish.  In  the  morning 
she  read  with  her  godmother,  or  em- 
broidered at  her  side;  after  dinner 
she  drove  out  in  an  open  carriage, 
and  on  Sundays  assisted  at  Mass  and 
Vespers,  kneeling  in  the  place  re- 
served for  the  chateau,  whilst  her 
parents  remained  at  the  lower  end  of 
the  nave,  admiring  her  from  a  dis- 
tance. 

In  the  village  were  some  sensible 


people,  who  openly  condemned  the 
whole  proceeding  ;  especially  Jacques 
Michou,  formerly  a  comrade  in  the 
same  regiment  with  Ragaud,  and  his 
great  friend,  who  one  day,  in  virtue  of 
his  long  friendship,  ventured  a  re- 
monstrance on  the  subject. 

"You  see,"  said  he  to  Ragaud, 
"  the  preferences  of  great  ladies  never 
last  long.  Suppose  mademoiselle 
marries,  or  takes  another  caprice, 
what  will  become  of  Jeanne,  with 
the  habits  of  a  nobleman's  daughter  ? 
She  will  not  be  able  to  wear  wooden 
shoes  or  dress  in  serge;  and  her 
stomach  will  reject  the  pork,  and 
cabbage,  and  rye  bread.  As  for  her 
mind,  it  will  be  pretty  difficult  ever 
to  make  her  feel  like  a  peasant  again. 
Believe  what  I  say,  Ragaud,  take 
your  daughter  home;  later  she  will 
Jhank  you,  when  her  reason  shall 
have  been  matured." 

It  was  certainly  wise  counsel ;  but 
Ragaud  had  two  reasons,  sufficiently 
good  in  his  opinion,  to  prevent  his 
accepting  such  advice.  In  the  first 
place,  he  thought  it  a  great  honor  to 
see  his  daughter  the  friend  and  com- 
panion of  M.  le  Marquis.  This  came 
from  the  heart  on  one  side,  as  he  was 
devoted  body  and  soul  to  the  good 
masters  who  had  made  his  fortune; 
but  I  would  not  swear,  on  the  other 
side,  that  it  was  not  mingled  with  a 
good  deal  of  pride.  Old  Ragaud 
was  easily  puffed  up  with  vanity,  and 
sometimes  at  the  wrong  time,  as  will 
be  seen  in  the  sequel. 
•  The  second  reason  was,  he  had 
long  been  persuaded  that  made- 
moiselle led  too  secluded  a  life. 

"  So  many  crowns,  and  so  few 
amusements,"  he  often  said.  "  Poor, 
dear  soul !  it  must  be  hard  for  her." 

Therefore,  he  regarded  as  a  fortu- 
nate stroke  her  love  for  Jeannette; 
and  if  it  would  have  drawn  down  the 
lightning  from  heaven  on  the  roof  of 
Muiceron,  he  could  not,  as  much 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


from  conscience  as  from  pity,  have 
deprived  mademoiselle  of  the  daily 
pleasure  that  gave  the  busy-bodies 
so  much  to  talk  about.  And  then, 
it  must  be  acknowledged  that  even 
among  our  most  intelligent  farmers 
there  prevails  a  pernicious  mania, 
which  pushes  them  to  elevate  their 
children  above  themselves.  They 
thus  act  contrary  to  the  designs  of 
God,  who  lets  the  seed  fall  where 
the  tree  should  grow ;  and  against 
themselves,  as  they  are  often,  in  the 
end,  humiliated  by  what  should  have 
been  their  glory.  But  what  can  you 
expect  ?  A  man  is  a  man. 

You  cannot  pour  more  water  in  a 
pitcher  than  it  will  hold,  and  in  a 
head  more  truth  than  it  can  under- 
stand. 

Ragaud  was  ill  at  ease  when  he 
perceived  mademoiselle's  splendid 
white  horses  draw  up  before  the 
church  door.  Only  fancy  that  before 
the'  eyes  of  the  entire  parish  those 
fine  horses  were  used  as  much  for 
Jeannette  as  for  the  daughter  of  M. 
le  Marquis!  It  was  precisely  on  a 
Sunday,  a  little  before  High  Mass, 
that  our  friend,  Jacques  Michou,  had 
offered  his  good  advice  ;  the  moment 
was  unpropitious,  and  Ragaud  thus 
replied  to  his  old  comrade : 

"  Friend  Jacques,  I  thank  you  for 
your  words,  as  they  are  said  with 
good  intention;  but  I  nevertheless 
believe  that  I  have  not  arrived  at 
my  age  without  knowing  how  to 
manage  my  own  affairs ;  which  I  say 
without  wishing  to  offend  you.  As 
for  dressing  in  serge,  my  daughter, 
being  my  only  child,  will  have  enough 
money  to  buy  silk  dresses  if  she 
should  desire  them;  and  that  will 
not  diminish  her  wealth.  As  for  the 
pork,  do  you*  think  it  never  appears 
on  the  tables  of  the  nobility  ?  Who 
knows  to  the  contrary  better  than  I  ? 
Twice  a  year  M.  le  Marquis  has  a 
supply  from  Pierrette.  Thus,  my 


daughter  will  not  lose  at  the  chateau 
the  taste  of  the  meals  at  the  farm. 
If  we  speak  of  rye  bread,  which  is 
certainly  the  ordinary  country  food, 
we  have  ours  half  mixed  with  flour, 
that  makes  the  bread  as  fine  as  the 
best  made  in  the  city.  I  can  tell 
you  that  mademoiselle  will  not  refuse 
it  to  Jeannette,  as  she  often  eats  it 
herself;  in  proof  of  which  she  fre- 
quently sends  to  Muiceron  for  some, 
without  inquiring  whether  the  flour 
is  fresh  or  stale.  So  you  may  rest 
quiet,  and  let  each  one  act  as  he 
pleases." 

And  so,  you  see,  without  being  im- 
polite, a  man  can  be  made  to  feel  his 
advice  is  despised. 

We  will  now,  if  you  please,  leave 
Jeannette  to  parade  her  fine  dresses 
in  the  chateau,  like  the  linnets  that 
sing  and  hop  in  the  sun,  never  car- 
ing for  sportsmen  or  nets,  and  return 
to  Muiceron  and  Jean-Louis. 

I  think  the  dear  fellow  thought 
pretty  much  as  Jacques  Michou  in 
relation  to  the  little  one ;  but  it  was 
in  the  secret  of  his  heart,  and,  as  his 
friends  appeared  happy,  he  asked 
nothing  more.  His  character  as  a 
child,  so  gentle  and  devoted,  did  not 
change  as  he  grew  up.  Different 
from  Jeannette,  who  became  a  young 
lady  without  learning  much,  he  re- 
mained a  peasant,  but  advanced  in 
knowledge  like  a  schoolmaster.  His 
love  of  books  did  not  interfere  with 
his  rustic  labors.  After  one  year  in 
class,  M.  le  Cure  was  obliged  to  teach 
him  alone,  as  he  knew  too  much  to 
go  with  the  others.  But  as  Ragaud 
could  not  do  without  an  assistant  c  n 
the  farm,  and  disliked  to  take  a  stran- 
ger, Jeannet  returned  to  Muiceron, 
contented  himself  with  one  lesson  on 
Sunday,  and  studied  by  himself  th« 
rest  of  the  week. 

After  his  first  communion,  which, 
at  his  own  request,  was  made  rather 
late,  but  with  perfect  comprehension 


28 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


and  a  heart  filled  with  love,  he  be- 
came still  better.  He  was  at  that 
time  a  fine  boy  of  thirteen,  larger 
than  usual  for  his  age,  with  a  hand- 
some face,  brunette  complexion,  and 
beautiful,  large,  dark  eyes.  M.  le 
Marquis  remarked  his  distinguished 
air,  which  meant  that  he  did  not 
resemble  the  other  young  village 
boys.  The  truth  was,  Jeannet,  who 
always  had  lived  a  peasant,  had  the 
manner  and  bearing  of  a  gentleman 
dressed  from  caprice  in  a  blouse ; 
and  yet  I  can  assure  you  it  was 
neither  vanity  nor  pretension  that 
gave  him  that  appearance. 

Who  would  imagine  that  about 
this  time  he  nearly  committed  a 
fault  from  excessive  love  of  study  ? 
And  nevertheless,  it  so  happened  in  a 
way  which  you  will  soon  understand. 
One  day,  M.  le  Cure,  wishing  to 
know  how  far  this  good  child's  mind 
could  follow  his,  amused  himself  by 
explaining  to  him  the  Latin  of  his 
Breviary.  Jean-Louis  caught  at 
this  novelty  like  a  fish  at  a  bait.  He 
became  passionately  fond  of  the  lan- 
guage, and,  as  he  had  no  time  d  r- 
ing  the  day,  gave  up  the  greater 
part  of  the  night  to  its  study.  Now, 
the  young  need  good,  sound  sleep  ; 
above  all,  when  weaned  with  work- 
ing in  the  fields.  Ragaud  soon 
jnderstood  it;  I  do  not  know  how. 
He  was  very  angry,  and  was  not  al- 
together wrong ;  for,  besides  the  fact 
.'hat  Jeannet  lost  flesh  every  day, 
he  was  afraid  of  fire,  as  his  room 
was  next  to  the  grain-loft.  Ragaud 
scolded  Jean-Louis  ;  M.  le  Cure  also 
came  in  fpr  his  share  of  reprimand  ; 
and  for  the  first  time  these  three 
persons,  who  had  always  agreed  so 
perfectly,  were  very  unhappy  on 
each  other's  account. 

"  If  you  wish  to  wear  the  cassock," 
said  Ragaud  to  his  son,  "  say  it. 
Although  it  will  be  a  great  sacrifice 
for  me  to  lose  your  company  and 


assistance,  I  will  not  prevent  you 
from  following  your  vocation.  But 
if  not,  I  beg  of  you  to  give  up  all 
this  reading  and  writing,  which  keeps 
you  up  so  late.  I  think  that  to  tend 
the  cows  and  till  the  earth,  the  village 
language  is  enough.  You  will  know 
one  day  that  for  you,  more  than  for 
others  even,  the  work  of  the  hands  is 
more  useful  than  that  of  the  mind." 

Thereupon  he  turned  his  back, 
and  Jeannet,  who  was  going  to  ask 
his  pardon,  and  assure  him  of  his 
submission,  could  not  reply.  As  he 
was  very  quick  under  his  quiet  man- 
ner, he  pondered  all  the  rest  of  the 
day  upon  his  father's  last  phrase. 
What  did  it  mean  ?  •  What  was  he  to 
know  one  day  ?  What  harm  was  there 
in  becoming  learned,  as  he  would 
eventually  be  rich  ?  The  poor  boy 
suspected  nothing  ;  and  yet  from  that 
moment  a  secret  and  profound  sad- 
ness entered  into  his  heart.  He 
bundled  up  his  books,  and  took  them 
back  to  M.  le  Cure  with  many 
thanks.  Our  curt  admired  his  obe- 
dience, and  Jeannet  profited  by  the 
opportunity  to  confide  his  grief  to 
his  dear  friend. 

The  good  pastor  reflected  a  mo- 
ment. It  was,  in  truth,  a  great  pain,  and 
one  which  he  did  not  expect  so  soon, 
to  be  obliged  to  confide  to  this  child 
the  secret  of  his  birth ;  but  sooner  or 
later  he  must  know  it,  and  whether 
to-day  or  to-morrow  mattered  little. 

"  My  son,"  said  he,  "  you  are  good 
and  reasonable ;  I  hope  your  conduct 
will  never  change.  Sit  down  there 
near  me,  and  listen." 

He  related  to  him  what  we  already 
know.  He  did  it  with  gentle  and 
holy  words,  fitted  to  pour  balm  into 
the  wound  that  he  was  forced  to 
make.  He  endeavored  especially  to 
show  forth  the  mercy  of  God  and  the 
generosity  of  the  Ragaude.  Poor 
Jeannet  little  expected  such  a  blow; 
he  became  pale  as  death  and  for  an 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


instant  appeared  overwhelmed  with 
astonishment  and  grief.  His  head  was 
in  a  whirl ;  he  rose,  threw  himself  on 
his  knees,  weeping  and  clasping  his 
hands.  Our  curd  let  this  first  burst 
of  grief  exhaust  itself;  and  then,  with 
kind  remonstrance,  finished  by  prov- 
ing that,  after  all,  grateful  joy  was 
more  seasonable  than  this  great 
affliction.  How  many  in  his  place 
had  been  abandoned,  without  parents, 
without  support,  without  instruction, 
condemned  to  want  and  suffering, 
and  doubtless  lost  both  for  this  world 
and  paradise?  Instead  of  such  a 
fate,  the  good  God  had  warmed  the 
little  bird  without  a  nest,  had  preserv- 
ed him  from  evil,  had  provided  for  his 
wants;  and  now  to-day,  thanks  to  all 
his  blessings,  he  was,  more  than  any 
other,  fitted  to  become  a  man  worthy 
to  rank  with  those  around  him. 

"  It  is  true  !  it  is  true  !"  cried  Jean- 
Louis.  "  But  how  can  I  reappear  at 
the  farm  ?  Alas !  I  left  it  thinking 
myself  the  son  of  the  house,  and  I 
will  re-enter  it  ~.  foundling !" 

"  There  you  do  not  speak  wisely, 
Jeannet,"  said  our  curt ;  "  you  will 
re  enter  Muiceron  such  as  you  left  it, 
with  the  only  difference  that  you  are 
now  obliged  to  be  still  more  obedi- 
ent, more  industrious,  and  more  de- 
voted to  your  parents  than  ever  in 
the  past.  It  is  not  by  having  learn- 
ed the  truth  that  your  position  is 
changed ;  on  the  contrary,  by  not 
knowing  it,  you  ran  the  risk  of  injur- 
ing it.  When  you  believed  yourself 
the  son  of  the  house,  you  naturally 
thought  it  allowable  to  follow  your 
inclinations,  and  act  as  you  wished. 
Now  you  must  feel  that  is  no  longer 
possible.  '  An  honest  heart  must 
pay  its  debts.'  I  know  your  heart; 
as  for  the  debxt,  you  see  now  how 
important  it  is.  Your  life  will  not 
suffice  to  pay  it,  but  you  can  greatly 
lessen  it  by  taking  upon  yourself  the 
interests  of  your  benefactors ;  by  re- 


lieving Ragaud,  who  is  growing  old, 
of  the  heaviest  work  in  the  fields ;  by 
caring  for  good  Mother  Pierrette,  who 
is  a  true  soul  of  the  good  God ;  and 
even  by  continuing  to  consider  Jean- 
nette  as  your  sister ;  which  gives  you 
the  right  to  offer  her  good  advice. 
For  remember  what  I  tell  you :  '  The 
distaff  is  known  by  the  wood  ' ;  which 
means  that  it  needs  a  strong  ash-stick 
to  support  a  roll  of  hemp,  whilst  a 
mahogany  wand  is  only  suitable  for 
silk.  Hence,  I  warn  you  that  Jeanne 
Ragaud,  after  being  accustomed  to 
display  herself  in  the  marquis'  car- 
riages, will  one  fine  day  fancy  herself 
a  silken  distaff,  and  we  will  have  to 
untwist  the  thread." 

"  Jeanne  will  one  day  know  I  am 
not  related  to  her,"  said  Jean-Louis, 
weeping.  "  What  then  can  I  say  to 
her  ?" 

"  Why  will  she  know  it  ?  It  would 
be  useless  to  tell  her.  And  besides,  the 
little  thing's  heart  is  not  spoiled;  she 
will  remember  that  you  are  the  friend 
of  her  childhood  and  her  elder." 

"  Father  Ragaud,"  replied  Jean- 
net,  "  told  me  this  morning,  if  I  wish- 
ed to  wear  the  cassock,  he  would 
not  hinder  me." 

"  Well,  then  ?" 

"  Well,  then,  M.  le  Cure,  if  I  am 
ever  sufficiently  learned,  can  I  not 
aspire  to  that  great  favor  ?" 

"  Before  our  present  conversation 
would  you  have  thought  of  it,  Jean- 
net  ?" 

"  I  believe  not,"  replied  he  frankly, 
lowering  his  head. 

"  Then,  my  boy,  give  up  the  idea. 
To  wear  the  cassock  is,  as  you  say,  a 
great  favor  ;  who  knows  it  better  than 
I,  who,  after  wearing  it  forty  years, 
acknowledge  my  unworthiness  ?  But 
you  must  not  start  on  a  road  without 
knowing  where  it  leads;  and  the 
cassock,  taken  through  vexation  or 
disappointment,  carries  its  wearer 
direct  to  the  path  in  which  he  walks 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


with  his  back  to  heaven.  You  can 
save  your  soul  by  remaining  on  the 
farm,  which  I  would  not  answer  for 
if  you  followed  a  vocation  formed  in 
half  an  hour." 

"  Yes,  I  will  remain  a  farm-laborer," 
said  Jeannet;  "  that  is  my  fate  for  all 
time." 

"  You  are  vain,  God  pardon  me !" 
cried  M.  le  Cure.  "  I  never  before 
noticed  this  monstrous  fault  in  you, 
which  has  caused  the  loss  of  so  many 
of  the  best  souls.  Farm-laborer ! 
that  means  a  tiller  of  the  fields  and 
shepherd.  My  son,  it  is  one  of  the 
noblest  positions  in  the  world ;  it 
was  the  calling  of  Abraham,  of  Jacob, 
of  the  great  patriarchs  of  the  Bible, 
that  I  wished  you  to  imitate;  and 
they  were  not  minor  personages.  If 
I  were  not  a  priest,  I  would  wish 
to  be  a  laborer;  at  least,  I  would 
gather  with  my  own  hand  the  wheat 
that  I  had  planted,  instead  of  receiv- 
ing it  as  the  gift  of  a  master,  often  a 
capricious  and  bad  Christian.  Yes, 
yes,  my  Jean,  take  care  not  to  be 
more  fastidious  than  the  good  God, 
who  took  his  dear  David,  from  mind- 
ing sheep,  to  be  the  ancestor  of  our 
Saviour.  And  then,  I  will  ask  you, 
how  would  your  destiny  be  elevated 


if  you  were  really  the  legitimate  cfciM 
of  the  Ragauds,  Would  you  desire 
to  be  greater  than  your  father  ?  And 
what  is  he  ?" 

Jeannet  was  convinced  by  all  these 
good  reasons,  uttered  in  rather  a  firm 
tone,  but  which  did  not  indicate  dis- 
pleasure. He  threw  himself  into  the 
curfs  arms,  and  acknowledged  his 
fault  with  a  contrite  and  penitent 
heart.  His  excellent  good  sense 
showed  him  that,  in  reality,  it  was 
only  vanity  that  had  made  him  speak 
thus.  He  promised  to  return  to 
Muiceron,  to  preserve  his  secret,  and 
to  be  the  model  of  field  laborers. 

Our  curt  gave  him  his  blessing, 
and  watched  him,  as  he  returned  to 
the  farm,  with  much  emotion.  Ah  ! 
if  poor  Catharine  had  known  how  to 
sacrifice  her  self-love  as  her  child 
had  just  done,  how  different  would 
have  been  his  fate!  "But,"  sighed 
the  good  pastor,  "  there  will  always 
be  frogs  who  will  burst  with  the 
ambition  of  becoming  oxen ;  and  if 
the  ox,  who  thought  the  frog  foolish, 
had  known  the  elephant,  undoubted- 
ly he  would  have  acted  in  the  same 
manner.  Poor  human  nature  !  poor 
beasts !  The  true  Christian  is  the  only 
wise  man !" 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


VIII. 

JEAN-LOUIS,  on  leaving  the  cur/, 
went  to  pray  in  the  church,  which 
remained  open  all  day  for  the  con- 
solation of  devout  souls.  In  the 
presence  of  God  he  reviewed  the  sad 
history  of  his  life,  shed  many  tears, 
but  soon  felt  wonderfully  strengthen- 
ed. This  fourteen-year-old  boy  had 
a  more  resolute  heart  than  many  a 
man  of  thirty.  What  he  swore  be- 
fore the  altar  of  God  and  the  statue 
of  Our  Blessed  Lady  was  the  oath 
of  a  Christian,  who  knows  the  value 
of  an  engagement  made  in  the  face 
of  heaven.  It  was  the  contract  of 
his  whole  life  that  he  then  signed, 
and  it  will  be  seen  if  he  knew  how 
to  keep  it.  His  first  weakness  on 
learning  the  secret  of  his  birth  had 
passed ;  he  determined  to  be  coura- 
geous, humble,  and  docile,  should  it 
cost  him  his  heart's  blood;  and  full 
of  these  brave  resolutions,  he  retook 
the  road  to  Muiceron. 

Nevertheless,  he  failed  in  one,  and 
you  as  well  as  I  will  excuse  him 
for  it. 

As  he  had  remained  rather  long  in 
the  village,  Pierrette,  who  had  heard 
him  reprimanded,  and  had  seen  him 
depart  with  his  books  under  his  arm, 
became  very  anxious,  fearing  that  he 
had  been  more  hurt  than  he  had 
shown.  She  was  standing  on  the 
threshold  of  the  door,  watching  the 
path  by  which  he  would  return ;  and 
when  she  perceived  him,  she  could 
not  conceal  her  joy,  for  the  child's 
face  was  bright  and  animated,  and 
seemed  the  mirror  of  a  happy  heart. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  so  happy  to  see  you, 


my  Jeannet,"  cried  the  good  woman 
in  a  burst  of  joy. 

"Were  you  alarmed  at  my  ab- 
sence ?"  asked  Jean-Louis,  running  to 
her. 

"  Alarmed  ?"  said  she.  "  No  .  .  . 
that  is  to  say,  yes,  I  was  a  little.  .  .  . 
Your  father  sometimes  conceals  his 
great  kindness  under  rather  too  quick 
a  manner.  A  child  like  you,  who 
never  deserves  to  be  scolded,  will  be 
easily  hurt  at  a  severe  word ;  and  I 
thought,  on  seeing  you  go  away  so 
quickly,  you  were  unhappy.  But 
now  you  are  at  home  again,  are  you 
neither  hot,  nor  hungry,  nor  troubled  ? 
Where  do  you  come  from  ?  What 
do  you  think  of  doing  ?  Tell  all  to 
your  mamma,  who  loves  you  so 
dearly." 

These  gentle  questions  pierced  the 
soul  of  the  poor  child  more  than  the 
severest  words  would  have  done. 
Gratitude  and  grief  choked  him  and 
prevented  him  from  replying,  and 
made  his  emotion  the  greater,  as 
these  two  sentiments  seldom  go  to.- 
gether.  He  looked  at  his  dear  mo- 
ther, with  his  great,  black  eyes  filled 
with  tears,  and  could  only  take  her 
hand  and  press  it  to  his  bosom. 

Thus  they  entered  the  house  to- 
gether, and  Ragaud,  whom  they 
thought  in  the  fields,  but  who  had 
returned  by  the  door  that  opened  on 
.the  bleaching-yard,  was  standing  be- 
fore the  hearth,  as  if  awaiting  them. 
You  doubtless  know,  as  you  must 
have  many  times  experienced  it,  that 
when  one  suddenly  sees  somebody, 
thought  to  be  half  a  league  away,  with- 
out wishing  it,  he  looks  rather  taken 


The  Farm  of  Mmceron. 


aback,  as  we  say.  You  can  well  be- 
lieve that  Pierrette  and  the  child  so 
looked,  as  they  remained  dumb  as 
fish,  like  poachers  hiding  from  the 
forest-guard. 

"Well,"  said  the  good  man  in  a 
loud  voice,  "  what  is  the  matter  with 
you  both  ?  It  seems  I  was  not  ex- 
pected. And  the  supper,  wife  ?" 

"  Here  it  is,"  Pierrette  hastened  to 
reply ;  "  only  move  a  little  to  one 
side,  that  I  may  take  off  the  pot." 

And  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
the  excellent  green-cabbage  soup 
was  smoking  on  the  table;  but  Jean- 
net,  who  stood  like  one  petrified,  did 
not  move. 

"  You  are  not  hungry,  then  ?"  asked 
Ragaud.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  You 
look  as  if  you  had  been  crying." 

"  Excuse  me,"  replied  Jeannet.  "  I 
do  not  feel  like  eating  this  evening." 

"  None  of  that,"  answered  Ragaud ; 
"to  punish  his  stomach  is  the  act 
of  a  spoiled  child.  Sit  down  and 
eat;  be  quick  about  it,  do  you  hear  ?" 

Jeannet  obeyed,  but  only  to  sit 
down ;  eat,  he  could  not. 

>"  See  here,"  said  Ragaud  in  a  jok- 
ing manner,  looking  at  him,  "  you 
are  of  the  true  modern  style.  For- 
merly, my  boy,  when  parents  reprov- 
ed their  children,  they  did  it  oftener 
with  the  hand  than  the  voice,  and 
things  were  not  the  worse  for  it.  My 
father  used  to  give  us  blows  with 
his  cudgel  without  counting  them ;  in 
his  opinion,  it  was  a  language  easily 
understood,  and  which  he  preferred 
to  reasoning,  as  it  saved  his  time. 
We  rubbed  our  backs,  and  it  was 
over;  none  of  us  thought  of  losing 
our  appetites,  still  less  of  crying. 
But  nowadays  children  must  be 
handled  with  gloves ;  and  even  with 
that  they  think  themselves  martyrs. 
The  parents  must  endure  everything 
without  a  murmur,  even  to  see  the 
house  catch  fire.  Ha !  ha ! — is  what 
I  say  true  ?" 


"  Oh !  yes,"  said  Jean-Louis,  "  you 
have  always  been  good  and  kind  to 
me;  and  believe  me,  believe  me  when 
I  say  that  I  am  truly  grateful,  that  I 
thank  you  with  my  whole  soul.  I 
was  guilty  without  knowing  it;  but  I 
am  penitent  and  sorry  for  having 
offended  you.  I  have  carried  back 
my  books,  which,  in  reality,  I  did 
not  need,  and  never  again  will  you 
have  to  reproach  me  about  them." 

"That  is  right,  that  is  right," 
said  Ragaud.  "  You  are  a  good  child, 
Jeannet,  and  now  it  is  ended.  What 
I  said,  you  see,  was  to  your  own 
interest ;  so  now  eat  and  be  cheerful. 
I  don't  like  tears,  above  all  in  a 
boy  who  will  soon  be  a  man  ;  give  me 
your  hand  without  any  bad  feeling." 

"  No,  no  !  embrace  him,"  said  Pier- 
rette. "His  heart  is  full;  isn't  it  so, 
my  son  ?" 

"  Kiss  me,  if  you  wish,"  said  Ra- 
gaud, extending  his  honest,  bearded 
face.  "  Generally  I  don't  like  these 
baby-kisses ;  but  if  it  is  necessary,  in 
order  that  you  may  eat  your  soup, 
make  yourself  happy,  boy." 

Just  at  this  time  it  was  too  much 
for  Jean-Louis;  nearly  fainting,  he 
fell  on  his  knees  by  the  side  of  Ra- 
gaud ;  he  threw  his  arms  around  him, 
pressed  him  to  his  breast,  and  kissed 
him  in  the  tenderest  manner,  to  the 
great  astonishment  of  the  good  far- 
mer, who  could  not  understand  such 
a  wonderful  display  of  affection. 

"  Good,  good,"  said  he  ;  "  but  be 
easy,  Jeannet.  Don't  I  tell  you  I  am 
no  longer  angry  ?" 

"O  my  father!  my  dear  father!" 
cried  the  child,  "  how  can  I  ever  re- 
pay you?" 

And  seeing  that  Ragaud  looked  at 
him  in  amazement,  he  added,  sobbing, 

"  Father,  mother,  I  know  all  .  .  ." 

"  Explain  yourself,"  said  Ragaud, 
beginning  to  understand  what  he 
meant.  "What  do  you  know,  my 
child?" 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


33 


"  All"  he  repeated  in  a  tone 
which  expressed  everything. 

"  There,"  cried  good  Pierrette,  her 
heart  melting  with  pity,  "  I  under- 
stand. I  know  now  what  he  means. 
But  after  fourteen  years  that  the 
secret  has  been  so  well  kept,  where 
has  the  creature  been  found  wicked 
enough  to  make  this  poor  child  so 
unhappy  ?" 

"  Dear  mother,"  exclaimed  Jean- 
Louis,  "  he  who  told  it  to  me  did  it 
from  true  kindness  of  heart;  you 
must  not  be  displeased  with  him. 
It  is  to  him  I  owe  my  life,  after  God 
and  you.  Do  not  mistake  my  tears ; 
they  do  not  come  from  grief,  but 
from  the  gratitude  which  will  last 
through  all  eternity." 

"  My  dear,  dear  child,"  said  Pier- 
rette, "  you  have  already  well  repaid 
us  by  your  tender  affection  and  good 
conduct.  Isn't  it  true,  Ragaud  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  he ;  "  and  I  will 
add,  my  boy,  that  the  Lord  God, 
through  love  of  whom  we  received 
you,  made  joy  and  prosperity  enter 
into  the  house  at  the  same  time  with 
you.  Thus,  although  I  like  the  gra- 
titude which  comes  from  a  truly  filial 
heart,  in  good  conscience  I  think 
we  are  quits." 

"  Oh !  never,  never,"  cried  Jean- 
net.  "  At  the  moment  of  my  death  I 
will  still  thank  you." 

"  On  condition  that  you  die  before 
us,  which  is  scarcely  probable,"  said 
Ragaud,  smiling.  "  Come,  child,  get 
up,  and  let  it  all  be  over.  Since, 
from  what  I  can  make  out,  no  other 
than  our  curl  has  told  you  the  story, 
I  am  happy  to  think  we  are  all '  big 
John,  as  before  ' — that  is  to  say,  that 
nothing  is  changed.  You  will  remain 
our  child,  the  elder  brother  of  Jean- 
nette,  and  the  prop  of  my  old  age." 

"  Your  servant  and  your  slave  for 
ever !"  cried  Jean-Louis. 

"  Bah  !  bah  !  No  slave,  Jeannet ; 
that  is  an  accursed  word  to  fall  from 


your  lips.  Let  it  all  remain  in  the 
cure's  library,  which  it  never  should 
have  left.  As  for  me,  I  am  not 
learned ;  but,  to  my  mind,  a  slave  is  a 
man  changed  into  a  beast  of  burden. 
I  ask  you  if  I  have  brought  you  up 
in  that  way  ?  No,  my  son,  you  will 
serve  me — it  is  my  wish — but  in  work- 
ing as  a  free  man  by  my  side,  accord- 
ing to  your  strength.  Is  it  well  un- 
derstood ?" 

"  I  have  no  other  desire  but  to 
please  you ;  and  I  pray  to  God,  my 
father,  that  I  may  prove  it  to  you 
every  day." 

"  I  hope  so,  my  boy.  The  past, 
they  say,  is  the  guarantee  of  the 
future;  and  never  have  you  caused 
me  serious  displeasure.  As  for  the 
little  affair  of  this  morning,  I  tell  you 
it  was  nothing.  Don't  regret  it ;  the 
only  result  will  be  that  we  will  love 
each  other  still  more." 

"  I  think  so,  too,"  said  Pierrette, 
"  if  it  is  possible." 

"  O  my  dear  parents !"  cried 
Jeannet,  kissing  them  both,  "  if  ever 
the  history  of  your  kindness  could  be 
written,  who  would  believe  it  true  ?" 

"  Don't  let  that  trouble  you,"  said 
Ragaud,  laughing  heartily,  "  there  is 
no  chance  of  its  being  written ;  and, 
besides,  things  do  not  improve  by 
being  known  to  men,  as  evil  is  more 
easily  believed  than  good." 

"It  is  very  well,"  said  Pierrette,, 
"that  mademoiselle  kept  Jeannette 
at  the  chateau  this  evening;  she 
would  have  been  in  the  way,  dear 
little  thing !" 

"  As  regards  that,"  replied  Ragaud, 
"  I  request  you,  Jean-Louis,  never  to 
breathe  a  word  to  Jeannette  of  what 
has  just  been  said.  Do  you  under- 
stand me  ?  I  have  my  own  idea 
about  it." 

"  I  promise  you,  my  father,"  an- 
swered Jeannet. 

The  name  of  the  little  girl,  thus 
pronounced  by  chance,  led  to  further 


34 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


conversation  about  the  two  children. 
They  remembered  the  infant  plays, 
where  she  was  so  lively  and  wilful, 
her  great  romps  with  the  shepherd's 
dog,  and  many  other  little  details, 
which  recalled  the  innocent  pleasures 
of  her  infancy  and  gave  such  zest  to 
their  tranquil  country  life.  Jeannet, 
well  consoled,  and  with  lightened 
heart,  told  his  parents  a  crowd  of 
little  events,  which  he  loved  to  relate 
in  praise  of  Jeannette,  and  which 
proved  the  goodness  of  her  heart  and 
mind,  to  the  great  delight  of  the  Ra- 
gauds.  From  that  to  remarking  that 
the  little  girl  had  nearly  disappeared 
from  the  family  was  but  a  step,  and 
which,  in  my  opinion,  was  a  leap 
easily  made.  In  the  meantime,  Ra- 
gaud,  who  appeared  half  asleep — I 
rather  think  so  as  not  to  talk  up- 
on the  subject — suddenly  awakened, 
and  ended  by  acknowledging  that  if 
Jeannet  were  not  at  Muiceron,  the 
house  would  be  as  destitute  of  chil- 
dren as  it  was  fifteen  years  before. 

"  My  dear  husband,"  said  Pierrette, 
"  it  is  not  to-day  that  we  are  to  learn 
that  parents  must  sacrifice  every- 
thing to  the  happiness  of  their  chil- 
dren." 

"  For  their  happiness,  yes,"  replied 
Ragaud ;  "  but  it  remains  to  be  seen 
if  Jeannette  will  always  be  as  happy 
as  she  is  now." 

And  as  he  was  clear-sighted,  when 
the  momentary  vanity  had  passed,  he 
related  with  earnestness  the  conver- 
sation with  Jacques  Michou,  which  he 
had  so  unwillingly  heard  at  the  time. 

"  There,"  said  Pierrette,  "  is  some- 
thing which  does  not  please  me.  If 
people  already  commence  to  talk 
about  our  daughter,  it  is  a  sign  that 
we  should  think  about  our  course 
in  regard  to  her,  and  perhaps  change 
it." 

"Think  about  it  we  should,"  re- 
plied Ragaud ;  "  but  to  change  it 
is  another  question.  For  then  we 


would  have  to  take  Jeannette  from 
mademoiselle  ;  and  as  her  regard  for 
our  little  girl  is  a  great  honor  for  us 
and  a  great  happiness  for  her,  never 
will  I  behave  in  that  manner  to  the 
daughter  of  our  lords,  'seeing  that  I 
owe  them  everything." 

"  It  is  very  embarrassing,"  said 
Pierrette,  who  spoke  rather  from  the 
feelings  of  the  heart  than  of  the 
head. 

"  Not  so  very  much,"  replied  Ra- 
gaud. "  By  acting  with  gentleness 
and  respect,  without  causing  pain  to 
mademoiselle,  we  can,  in  the  end, 
make  her  wishes  accord  with  ours." 

"  Oh  !  if  Jeannette  could  return," 
cried  Jean-Louis,  "  what  happiness 
for  us  all,  dear  father !" 

"  You !"  said  Ragaud.  "  You  may 
boast  of  being  very  brave  in  her 
absence ;  but  I  can  remember  seeing 
you  many  and  many  a  time  racing 
together  over  the  meadows ;  the  girl 
would  torment  you  to  her  heart's 
content,  and  you,  like  a  big  simple- 
ton, never  once  stumbled  so  as  to 
humbug  her  in  return.  Thus  you 
accustomed  her  to  think  herself  the 
mistress,  which  she  did  not  hesitate  to 
show." 

"  She  is  so  sweet,"  said  Jeannet, 
"  and  so  good-natured ;  if  she  had 
half  killed  me,  I  would  not  have 
minded  it." 

"  If  you  only  wished  to  know 
Latin  that  you  might  talk  such  non- 
sense," replied  Ragaud,  "  you  did 
very  well  to  give  up  the  study. 
You,  too,"  added  he,  turning  towards 
Pierrette,  forgetting  he  should  be  the 
first  to  accuse  himself — "you,  too,  have 
so  completely  spoiled  Jeannette,  I 
will  be  obliged  to  undertake  the 
difficult  task  of  repairing  your  work. 
But  patience;  to-morrow  I  will  take 
the  shovel  and  the  spade.  I  will 
do  it' 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 
asked  Pierrette,  alarmed. 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


35 


'*  I  am  going  to  see,"  said  Ragaud, 
"  if  my  daughter  is  of  the  good  and 
true  blood  of  her  father.  I  will  ask 
mademoiselle  to  give  her  to  me  for 
the  octave  of  S.  Martin ;  and  during 
that  time  I  will  make  her  resume  her 
peasant-life  as  though  she  should 
rrever  quit  it  again.  If  she  becomes 
sullen  and  cross,  I  won't  say  what  I 
will  do;  but  if,  as  I  believe,  she 
will  appear  happ^y  and  contented,  we 
will  know  that  the  chateau  does  not 
injure  her,  and  then  we  will  sleep  in 
peace.  How  do  you  like  that  ?" 

"  Oh !  th.at  is  a  capital  idea  I 
never  would  have  dreamt  of,"  said 
Pierrette,  clasping  her  hands  in  ad- 
miration. 

Ragaud  appeared  pleased  at  be- 
ing thought  so  brilliant ;  he  resettled 
himself  in  his  big  linen  collar,  drank 
a  glass  of  good  cider,  and  knelt  down 
to  say  the  Our  Father  and  Hail 
Mary,  which  he  always  did  before 
retiring. 

Jeannet  made  no  remark ;  he  had 
too  much  sense  to  think  that  this  lit- 
tle trial  would  be  sufficient  and  sa- 
tisfy every  one ;  but  he  would  see 
Jeannette  for  a  whole  week,  and  he 
decided  to  amuse  her  in  such  a  way 
that  she  would  not  regret  her  life  at 
the  chateau. 

Ragaud's  plans  were  fully  carried 
out.  Mademoiselle  willingly  gave 
up  Jeannette,  thinking  by  that  means 
she  would  have  still  stronger  claims 
for  keeping  her  afterwards ;  and  the 
little  one,  led  by  her  father,  returned 
to  Muiceron  the  eve  of  S.  Martin's 
day,  which  is,  among  us,  the  feast  of 
the  vine-dressers. 

If  you  are  anxious  to  know  how 
she  behaved,  I  will  inform  you  that 
the  very  next  day,  and  without  any 
one  having  to  tell  her,  she  tumbled 
over  the  things  in  the  chest  to  find 
her  woollen  skirts  and  coarse  linen 
apron.  She  had  grown  so  mush,  she 
was  obliged  to  rip  and  remake  for  a 


full  hour  before  she  could  put  them 
on,  which  caused  much  talk  and 
laughter  that  rang  through  the 
house.  Her  wooden  shoes,  which 
had  remained  in  a  corner  during  the 
past  fifteen  months,  were  likewise  too 
small;  and  as  that  could  not  be 
remedied  by  the  needle  and  thread, 
it  was  a  real  difficulty ;  but  Jeannette, 
who  had  not  lost  her  habit  of  hav- 
ing an  answer  for  everything,  declared 
she  would  wear  Pierrette's.  You  can 
imagine  the  amusement  this  caused ; 
and,  in  fact,  at  her  first  step  she 
stumbled,  and  nearly  fell  down. 

Thereupon  Jeannet  darted  off  like 
an  arrow,  and  brought  a  new  pair 
from  the  harness- maker  at  Ordon- 
niers. 

Jeannette  was  equally  well  pleased 
with  the  eating,  sleeping,  and  all  the 
old  habits  of  her  country  life.  Never 
had  she  appeared  happier,  more  ac- 
tive, and  better  disposed  to  assist 
her  mother  in  her  household  labors. 
It  could  be  well  imagined  that,  having 
heard  of  the  gossiping  about  her,  she 
wished  to  prove  by  every  means  the 
good  people  were  wrong ;  and  Ra- 
gaud had  only  one  wish,  which  was 
that  the  busy-bodies  of  the  village 
could  look  through  the  key-hole  and 
see  her  at  work. 

This  was  scarcely  possible ;  but  he 
could,  at  least,  satisfy  Jacques  Michou, 
the  first  grumbler,  whom  he  had  so 
well  repulsed,  as  you  may  remem- 
ber. 

For  that  purpose,  without  mention- 
ing the  return  of  Jeannette  to  the 
farm,  with  a  frank  and  simple  air, 
he  asked  his  old  comrade  to  come 
and  break  bread  with  him  on  S. 
Martin's  day.  M.  le  Cure  was  also 
invited,  and  on  the  morning  of  the 
feast  Ragaud  gave  Pierrette  her 
lesson : 

"  Understand  well  this  day  I  wish 
you  to  be  quiet.  You  can  tell  the 
child  all  that  must  be  done,  not 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


only  for  the  cooking,  but  for  the  ta- 
ble and  the  serving  of  it.  I  don't 
wish  to  have  the  shame  of  seeing  the 
children  seated  at  table,  whilst  the 
mother  is  going  around  the  hearth, 
skirts  pinned  up,  doing  the  servant's 
work ;  which  is  not  proper.  It  is  very 
well  to  be  a  good  woman,  always 
ready  to  sacrifice  herself;  but  it  is  al- 
so well  every  one  should  know  there 
is  but  one  mistress  of  Muiceron." 

"  Jeannette  is  too  little,"  Pierrette 
gently  objected;  "she  could  not 
reach  up  to  the  stove,  and  I  am 
afraid  the  dishes  will  be  too  heavy 
for  her  arms  to  carry,  little  darling !" 

"  You  will  make  Marion,  the  dairy- 
maid, aid  her  in  the  heavy  work," 
said  Ragaud.  "  I  don't  ask  impossi- 
bilities, and  I  would  be  the  first  to 
fear  if  our  little  girl  ran  the  risk  of 
burning  herself.  What  I  wish  is  that 
she,  and  not  you,  should  have  all  the 
trouble." 

Pierrette  yielded  to  this  good  ar- 
gument, although  a  little  afraid  that 
Jeannette  would  have  too  much 
trouble.  As  for  the  little  girl,  she 
was  very  proud  to  give  orders  to 
Marion,  and  commenced  immediate- 
ly to  play  her  part  of  mistress  of  the 
farm. 

Then  could  be  seen  how  bright 
she  was.  She  came  and  went,  pass- 
ing from  the  barn-yard  to  the  wood- 
house,  from  the  wood-house  to  the  lin- 
en-chests; bravely  looking  on  when 
they  bled  the  chickens  and  cut  up 
the  meat;  selecting  the  beautiful, 
white  table-cloths ;  superintending, 
polishing  the  glasses,  dusting,  flying 
about  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp.  Big 
Marion  trotted  after  her  on  her  heels, 
scarcely  able  to  follow  her,  stifled 
half  with  heat  and  half  with  laughter 
at  the  sight  of  such  an  active  young 
mistress. 

Who  would  have  thought,  on  see- 
ing her  thus  occupied,  that  the  very 
evening  before  she  had  been  seated 


at  the  right  of  mademoiselle  in  her 
beautiful  carriage,  driving  around  the 
country  ?  It  was  really  wonderful  to 
see  her  so  quick  at  everything,  young 
as  she  was ;  and  you  would  have 
been  as  much  surprised  as  the  Ra- 
gauds,  who  gazed  at  her  in  astonish- 
ed admiration — parental  vanity  easi- 
ly forgiven  in  this  case — and  asked 
each  other  where  Jeannette  could 
have  learned  so  much  that  even 
housekeepers  of  thirty  hardly  knew. 

The  truth  was,  she  had  never 
learned  anything  from  anybody  or 
anywhere ;  but  she  was  precocious  in 
every  respect.  It  was  enough  for  her 
to  hear  or  see  a  thing  once  always  to 
remember  it;  so  she  had  only  to 
think  an  instant  to  put  in  practice 
what  she  had  observed.  Add  to  this 
she  was  as  sly  as  a  fox,  and  ardently 
loved  to  give  satisfaction,  and  you 
will  easily  understand  there  was  no- 
thing very  astonishing  in  her  per- 
formance. 

About  twilight,  Jacques  Michou 
made  his  appearance,  accompanied 
by  the  curt,  whom  he  had  overtaken 
on  the  road.  Jeannette  came  forward 
to  meet  them,  and  made  a  low  rever- 
ence in  true  peasant  style,  totally  un- 
like the  bows  made  in  M.  le  Marquis' 
salon.  It  was  a  great  surprise  for 
these  honest  souls,  who  had  been 
conversing  along  the  way  about  the 
blindness  of  Ragaud  in  regard  to 
his  daughter,  and  they  were  both  too 
frank  not  to  show  their  satisfaction. 

"  So  you  have  come  back,  my 
child?"  said  the  curt, » patting  her 
kindly  on  the  head. 

"  To  wait  upon  you,  M.  le  Cur6," 
she  sweetly  replied. 

"  And  your  beautiful  dresses  ?' 
asked  Jacques  Michou. 

"  They  are  hanging  up  in  the  ward- 
robe," said  Jeannette,  laughing. 

"  Indeed !  And  do  you  like  to  have 
them  there  as  much  as  on  your  back, 
my  little  girl  ?" 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


37 


"  Why  not  ?"  she  replied.  "  I  am 
happy  here  with  my  father,  my  mo- 
ther, and  Jeannet." 

"  It  is  your  best  place,"  said  the 
curt.  "  I  am  delighted,  Mme.  Ra- 
gaud,  to  see  your  daughter  at  home. 
Is  it  for  some  time  ?" 

"  If  mademoiselle  does  not  reclaim 
her,"  said  Pierrette,  blushing,  for  she 
never  would  speak  falsely,  "it  will 
be  for  ever." 

"  Well,  I  hope  it  will  be  so,"  said 
he.  "  And  you,  Jeannette,  do  you  de- 
sire it  also  ?" 

"  I  am  always  happy  with  my  dear 
parents."  replied  the  little  one ;  "  but 
mademoiselle  is  so  kind  and  good,  I 
am  always  happy  with  her  also.  If 
my  mother  sends  me  to  the  chateau, 
I  will  go ;  and  if  she  commands  me  to 
return,  I  will  come  back." 

They  could  not  help  being  pleas- 
ed with  this  speech  of  the  good, 
obedient  little  girl,  and  they  took 
their  places  at  table  without  any 
further  questions  or  raillery.  Jean- 
nette, during  the  supper,  rose  more 
than  twenty  times  to  see  that  all 
was  right ;  and  Ragaud,  you  can  well 
imagine,  did  not  fail  to  inform  his 
guests  that  everything  had  been  pre- 
pared under  his  daughter's  eye.  It 
was  strictly  true,  as  they  clearly  saw; 
and,  consequently,  the  compliments 
were  freely  bestowed.  Nevertheless, 
when  the  dessert  was  brought  on, 
Ragaud  could  not  resist  saying  to 
Michou,  with  a  significant  look,  as  he 
held  up  his  glass  : 

"Well,  my  old  fellow,  will  you 
now  give  me  credit  for  knowing  how 
to  bring  up  my  children  ?" 

Jacques  nodded  his  head,  and, 
holding  up  his  glass,  replied,  "  I  will 
come  to  see  you  eight  years  from 
now,  comrade,  and  then  I  will  an- 
swer your  question."  ^ 

"  Very  good,"  said  Ragaud.  "  M. 
le  Cure,  you  will  be  witness.  I  pro- 
raise  to  give  a  cow  to  Jacques  Mi- 


chou, if,  at  that  time,  Jeannette  is  not 
the  best  housekeeper  in  the  coun- 
try." 

"  I  take  the  bet,"  replied  Jacques, 
laughing;  "and  I  add  that  I  hope 
to  lose  it  as  surely  as  the  good  God 
has  no  master." 

"  Come,  come,"  said  the  curt 
gravely,  "it  is  not  worth  such  an 
oath.  Between  good  men,  my  friends, 
it  is  enough  to  say  yes  or  no.  I 
consent  to  be  witness,  and  I  also  say 
I  hope  that  Jacques  will  lose  the 
bet." 

They  stopped  as  they  saw  Jean- 
nette, who  returned  to  the  table, 
crimson  with  pleasure.  Behind  her 
came  big  Marion,  carrying,  with 
great  care,  a  large  dish,  upon  which 
stood,  erect  on  his  claws,  a  beautiful 
pheasant  that  seemed  ready  to  crow. 
As  it  was  at  the  end  of  the  meal, 
every  one  looked  at  it  with  amaze- 
ment, especially  Pierrette,  who  had 
not  been  let  into  the  secret.  It  was 
a  surprise  invented  by  Jeannette, 
who  clapped  her  hands  and  laughed 
heartily,  and  then  wished  them  to 
guess  what  it  was.  After  she  had 
thoroughly  enjoyed  their  astonish- 
ment, she  rapidly  took  out  the  feath- 
ers, and  then  they  saw  it  was  a  de- 
licious pudding,  stuffed  with  plums, 
which  she  had  manufactured,  with 
Marion  and  Jeannet's  assistance,  af- 
ter the  style  of  M.  le  Marquis'  cook. 
Pierrette,  it  must  be  acknowledged, 
wept  tears  of  admiration  ;  for  this  was 
a  wonder  that  surpassed  her.  imag- 
ination. 

This  magnificent  performance  in- 
creased Ragaud's  good  humor ;  and 
I  verily  believe,  but  for  the  presence 
of  M.  le  Cure",  he  would  have  emp- 
tied more  than  one  bottle  in  honor 
of  Jeannette  and  the  pheasant.  But 
our  good  pastor,  without  being  the 
least  in  the  world  opposed  to  inno- 
cent enjoyment,  did  not  like  the  ga- 
iety which  comes  from  drinking,  as 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


we  already  know.  Consequently, 
they  soon  rose  from  the  entertain- 
ment, and  wished  each  other  a  cor- 
dial good-night.  The  little  pet  was 
so  worn  out  with  her  extraordinary 
efforts,  she  soon  after  fell  asleep  in 
her  chair,  and  they  had  to  carry  her 
off  to  bed.  She  was  thoroughly  tired, 
and  Pierrette  observed  it  was  not 
surprising,  after  such  a  day's  work, 
which,  perhaps,  she  herself  could  not 
have  stood. 

IX. 

That  night  something  occurred 
which  appeared  of  small  importance  at 
the  time,  but  that  had  great  results, 
which  many  persons  never  under- 
stood, and  that  I  will  reveal  to  you  at 
the  proper  time  and  place.  For  many 
years  it  was  a  great  mystery ;  and  I 
remember,  when  I  was  young,  my  ho- 
nest and  pious  father  was  conversing 
in  a  whisper  one  evening,  in  the  dim 
twilight,  with  an  old  friend,  and  I  hid 
myself  under  a  chair  to  find  out 
what  he  was  saying;  but  not  one 
word  of  the  secret  could  I  make 
out.  Nevertheless,  one  fearful  expres- 
sion I  remembered  for  a  long  while. 
When  my  father  was  tired  with  talk- 
ing, he  dismissed  his  chum,  saying  : 

"  Now  we  will  stop ;  and  be  silent 
as  the  grave.  You  know  you  might 
lose  your  head  !" 

And  at  these  terrible  words,  the 
friend  replied  by  placing  the  finger 
of  his  left  hand  on  his  lips,  and  with 
his  right  pulled  down  his  cap  over 
his  ears,  as  if  to  make  sure  that  his 
head  was  still  safe  on  his  shoulders. 
It  was  really  a  gesture  which  froze 
one  with  terror;  and  as  for  me,  I 
shook  so  I  thought  I  would  overturn 
the  chair  which  served  me  for  a  hid- 
ing-place. 

And  now,  I  beg  of  you  not  to  be 
as  curious  as  I  was,  for  you  would 
gain  nothing  by  it.  I  am  only  going 
to  tell  you  what  happened  the  night 
after  the  dinner  on  S.  Martin's  day. 


No  matter  how  late  it  might  be 
Ragaud,  excellent  manager  as  he 
was,  never  went  to  bed  without  hav- 
ing carefully  made  the  tour  of  all  his 
buildings  with  a  dark  lantern.  He 
remained  seated  by  the  fire,  while 
Pierrette  carried  off  the  little  girl  to 
bed,  and  Jean-Louis  retired  to  his 
room.  When  all  was  still,  he  rose 
and  went  out  softly  to  commence  his 
round. 

It  was  a  beautiful  night,  rather 
dark,  but  mild  for  November.  Ra- 
gaud walked  through  his  little  or- 
chard, from  whence  could  be  seen 
the  stables  and  barns,  behind  which 
rose  the  tall  fir-trees,  unruffled  by  a 
breath  of  wind.  He  passed  into 
the  barn-yard,  silent  likewise  ;  chick- 
ens, geese,  ducks,  and  turkeys  slept 
soundly,  heads  under  their  wings,  on 
the  perches  appropriated  to  them  by 
Pierrette.  All  was  quiet  and  in  good 
order,  and  Ragaud,  content  with  him- 
self and  the  world,  prepared  to  re- 
enter,  when,  accidentally  raising  his 
head,  he  saw  in  the  distance  some- 
thing so  astonishing  he  remained  as 
though  nailed  to  the  spot,  and  nearly 
dropped  his  lantern  in  the  excitement 
of  the  moment. 

The  chateau  of  Val-Saint,  which 
could  be  seen  from  a  certain  point  in 
the  garden,  like  a  great,  black  mass 
in  the  horizon,  appeared  as  though 
lighted  up  with  sparks  of  fire.  A 
light  would  be  seen  first  at  one  win- 
dow, then  at  another,  and  then  dis- 
appear as  quickly  as  it  came.  Good 
Ragaud  could  not  believe  his  eyes. 
Surely  something  extraordinary  was 
taking  place  at  the  chateau;  for  M. 
le  Marquis  and  mademoiselle,  with 
all  due  respect,  went  to  bed  with  the 
chickens,  and  the  servants  were  not 
allowed  to  remain  up. 

"  What  t]je  devil  is  the  matter 
with  me  to-night  ?"  thought  Ragaud 
"  Am  I  dreaming  on  my  feet,  or  must 
I  fancy  the  two  or  three  glasses  of 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


39 


white  wine  more  than  usual  at  des- 
sert have  turned  my  brain  ?" 

Not  a  bit  of  it;  he  saw  perfectly 
clear.  The  light  danced  about  the 
windows,  as  though  to  mock  him, 
and  finally  went  out  entirely.  But 
now  comes  the  crowning  mystery. 
A  great,  blue  star  appeared  on  the 
summit  of  the  high  tower,  and  rose 
upward  until  it  was  hidden  by  a 
cloud. 

At  the  same  instant,  Ragaud  felt 
two  heavy  hands  resting  on  his  shoul- 
ders and  something  breathe  heavily 
on  his  neck.  . 

Indeed,  only  put  yourself  in  his 
place.  There  was  something  to  fear ; 
and  so  the  brave  fellow,  who  in  his 
youth  had  fought  in  our  great  battles, 
was  all  over  goose-flesh.  But  it  was 
only  momentary  ;  for,  quickly  turning, 
he  saw  that  he  had  on  his  back  the  soft 
paws  of  his  dog  Pataud,  who,  mak- 
ing the  rounds  at  his  side,  took  this 
means  of  caressing  him. 

"  Down,  Pataud,  old  fellow  !"  said 
he  gently;  " it  is  not  daybreak.  Go 
lie  down !  Be  quick  !  Be  off  to  your 
kennel !  Do  you  hear  me  ?" 

Pataud  heard  very  well,  but  obedi- 
ence was  not  to  his  taste  that  night. 
He  wagged  his  tail,  and  appeared  in 
splendid  humor ;  one  would  think  he 
suspected  something  was  going  on  at 
the  chateau. 

"  So  you  think  there  is  something 
in  the  wind  up  there,  do  you  ?"  asked 
Ragaud,  snapping  his  fingers  in  the 
air.  "  Will  you  come  with  me,  and 
see  what  it  is  all  about  ?" 

At  these  words,  he  started  as 
though  to  leave  the  garden,  and  Pa- 
taud this  time  seemed  to  consent. 

"  This  comes  from  having  an  ani- 
mal well  brought  up,"  thought  Ra- 
gaud. "  If  you  could  speak,  my  cun- 
ning old  fellow,  doubtless  you  would 
tell  me  what  I  wish  to  know ;  but  as 
that  can't  be  expected,  I  must  remain 
very  anxious  until  the  morning." 


He  re-entered  the  house  after  this 
reflection,  having  obliged  Pataud  to 
remain  quiet  by  giving  him  a  friendly 
kick  over  the  threshold  of  the  kennel. 

To  sleep  was  difficult ;  he  had  the 
faithful  heart  of  an  old  servant,  who 
could  not  repose  when  he  feared  evil 
was  impending  over  his  masters. 
He  remembered  that  ten  years  be- 
fore, on  a  similar  night  in  November, 
lights  appeared  in  every  window  the 
whole  length  of  the  facade  of  the 
chateau,  and  on  the  next  day,  alas  ! 
it  was  known  they  had  been  lighted 
during  the  agony  of  our  beloved  mis- 
tress, Mine,  la  Marquise  de  Val-Saint. 
Was  it  not  enough  to  make  him  ap- 
prehend some  misfortune  for  his  dear 
lord? 

Poor  mademoiselle's  health  was 
not  very  robust,  and  she  frequently 
said,  in  such  a  mournful  tone,  that 
the  country  air  was  not  good  for  her. 

"  To-morrow,"  said  Ragaud  to 
himself,  "  I  will  take  back  Jeannette 
the  first  thing  in  the  morning ;  if 
mademoiselle  is  sick,  it  will  do  her 
good  to  see  her  again ;  and  perhaps  I 
would  have  done  better  if  I  had  let 
her  remain.  Who  knows  but  the 
dear  soul  was  so  fondly  attached  to 
the  child,  she  has  become  ill  in  cou- 
sequence  ?" 

You  must  know  Ragaud  listener] 
to  the  voice  of  his  conscience  as  a 
devotee  hears  a  sermon ;  and  once 
persuaded  that  it  was  his  duty  to 
take  back  to  mademoiselle  her  favor- 
ite plaything,  twenty-five  notaries 
could  not  have  shaken  his  decision. 
Consequently,  at  the  first  break  of 
day,  he  took  from  the  chest  his  Sun- 
day clothes,  and  was  in  holiday  trim 
when  Pierrette  came  down  to  go  out 
and  milk  the  cows.  You  can  well 
imagine  her  astonishment. 

"  Wife,"  said  Ragaud.  "  go  and 
make  Jeannette  get  up  quickly,  and 
tell  her  to  put  on  her  chateau  dress." 

"  Is  it  possible  the  child  will  leave 


40 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


us  so  soon  ?"  replied  Pierrette,  deeply 
grieved. 

"  I  wish  it,"  said  the  good  man, 
"  for  reasons,  Pierrette,  that  you  will 
know  later." 

She  obeyed  without  answering. 
Jean-Louis,  meanwhile,  entered  the 
room. 

"  Light  the  fire,  boy,"  said  Ragaud, 
"  and  warm  us  up  something.  I 
must  go  to  the  chateau  with  your 
sister,  and  I  will  not  take  her  out  in 
the  cold,  fasting." 

"  Father,"  said  Jean-Louis,  while 
rapidly  breaking  up  the  fagots,  "  did 
you  see  a  bright  light  last  night 
around  the  big  tower  of  the  chateau  ?" 

"  Did  you  ?"  asked  Ragaud. 

"  I  saw  something  like  a  rocket 
go  up  from  the  chateau,"  the  boy  re- 
plied. 

"  Yes,  I  saw  it  also,"  answered 
Ragaud ;  "  and  Pataud  did,  too. 
What  do  you  think  it  could  have 
been,  Jeannet  ?" 

"  I  think,"  said  Jean-Louis,  "  they 
illuminated  the  chateau  and  fired  off 
rockets  in  honor  of  S.  Martin." 

"  Very  probable,  child ;  that  is  a 
good  idea,"  said  Ragaud  laughing. 
"  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  the  whole 
secret;  but,  any  how,  I  would  rather 
go  and  find  out." 

"Shall  I  go  with  you,  father?" 
asked  Jeannet^ 

"  No,  stay  and  help  your  mother; 
if  I  want  you,  I  will  tell  you.  It  is 
enough  that  I  must  carry  off  the  little 
girl." 

Jeannette  all  this  time  was  dress- 
ing as  fast  as  possible,  without  ask- 
ing why  or  wherefore.  She  yawned 
and  rubbed  her  eyes,  not  having  had 
her  full  sleep ;  but  I  think  the  idea 
of  returning  to  her  godmother  was 
not  very  disagreeable. 

However,  she  was  sufficiently 
wide  awake  to  swallow  down  a  big 
bowl  of  sweetened  milk  ;  after  which, 
Pierrette  wrapped  her  up  in  a  warm 


shawl,  and  kissed  her  good-by  with  a 
full  heart. 

All  this  had  taken  two  hours  ;  and 
Ragaud  not  wishing  to  hurry  her, 
the  village  clock  struck  eight  when 
they  reached  the  door  of  the  chateau. 

The  first  person  they  saw,  contrary 
to  the  usual  custom,  was  Master  Jean 
Riponin,  who  was  M.  le  Marquis' 
man  of  business.  From  his  imposing 
manner  and  the  great  fuss  he  was 
making — ordering  every  one  here  and 
there  with  a  voice  as  rough  as  the 
captain  of  a  fire-brigade — it  was  diffi- 
cult to  fancy  there  was  any  one  above 
him  in  the  chateau ;  Ragaud,  sharp 
fellow  that  he  was,  took  it  in  at  a 
glance,  and,  instead  of  approaching 
the  steward,  as  he  had  always  done, 
without  ceremony  and  a  good  shake 
of  the  hand,  he  remained  at  a  slight 
distance,  and  touched  his  hat. 

"  It  is  you,  Master  Ragaud  ?"  said 
Jean  Riponin  with  a  patronizing  air. 
"  Wait  a  moment ;  I  will  speak  to  you 
after  I  have  given  my  orders  to  these 
stupid  things." 

"  Don't  disturb  yourself,"  replied 
Ragaud.  "  I  have  not  come  on  busi- 
ness to-day ;  I  only  wish  to  see  made- 
moiselle." 

"  It  is  I  who  have  received  full 
power  from  M.  le  Marquis  at  his 
departure,"  replied  Riponin,  a  little 
provoked.  "  Mademoiselle  is  not  up 
yet ;  and,  if  she  were,  be  assured,  Ra- 
gaud, she  would  send  you  back  to 
me.  So  let  me  know  what  you  want 
without  further  delay,  as  I  am  in  a 
hurry." 

"  Did  you  not  say  M.  le  Marquis 
had  left  ?"  asked  the  farmer,  as  much 
from  interest  as  to  cut  short  the 
puffed- up  superintendent. 

"  Yes,  this  morning  before  the  day- 
dawn,"  said  he ;  "  and  it  seems  it 
was  something  very  hurried,  for  he 
had  only  time  to  hand  me  all  the 
keys  of  the  house,  except  those  of 
his  desk  and  safe,  which  were  forgot- 


The  Furm  of  Muiceron. 


ten  in  his  great  haste.  But  he  must 
have  already  perceived  it,  and  I  ex- 
pect to  receive  those  two  keys  by  ex- 
press." 

"  Indeed,"  thought  Ragaud,  "  it 
will  be  time  enough  to  see  them 
when  they  come — that  is  to  say,  if 
they  will  ever  come."  For  he  knew 
Master  Riponin  was  not  a  man  who 
regarded  the  marquis'  crowns  as 
relics  once  that  he  saw  the  heap. 
Fortunately,  M.  le  Marquis  was  of 
the  same  opinion  ;  therefore,  he  kept 
Riponin  in  his  service  on  account 
of  many  other  good  qualities  that  he 
possessed ;  but  as  for  the  desk  and 
safe,  he  never  saw  anything  but  the 
key-holes. 

While  Riponin  and  Ragaud  were 
conversing,  mademoiselle,  who  had 
just  risen,  drew  aside  her  curtains  to 
see  what  caused  such  a  noise  in 
the  court;  and  the  cunning  little 
Jeannette,  as  soon  as  she  perceired 
her  godmother,  kissed  her  hand  to 
her.  In  less  than  a  minute,  Dame 
Berthe  appeared  at  the  door. 

"  M.  Ragaud,"  said  she,  "  I  am 
sent  by  mademoiselle  to  beg  that 
you  will  go  to  her  immediately ;  and 
you,  Jeannette,  run  and  kiss  your  god- 
mother." 

"  M.  Riponin,  I  wish  you  good- 
morning,"  said  Ragaud,  carelessly 
turning  his  back  on  the  steward. 

The  steward  watched  him  enter  the 
chateau  with  anything  but  a  pleas- 
ed expression  ;  but  he  dared  not  show 
his  displeasure  before  Dame  Berthe, 
whom  he  knew  was  not  friendly  to  him. 

Dear  mademoiselle's  eyes  filled 
with  tears  when  she  saw  her  darling 

O 

pet.  The  little  one  was  tender- 
hearted, and  was  deeply  moved  by 
this  proof  of  affection.  Ragaud,  like- 
wise, showed  great  emotion,  and 
Dame  Berthe  said  it  would  have 
been  a  cruel  shame  to  have  longer 
deprived  the  chiteau  of  its  chief 
delight. 


"Ragaud,"  said  mademoiselle, 
"  my  dear  Ragaud,  if  you  had  not 
come  to-day,  I  was  going  myself  to 
bring  back  Jeannette.  You  see,  I  am 
so  unhappy." 

"  I  did  not  think  you  loved  the 
child  so  much,"  replied  Ragaud;  "  it 
is  a  great  honor  for  Jeannette  and 
for  us  all,  dear  mademoiselle,  and  I 
desire  nothing  so  much  as  to  con- 
tribute to  your  happiness." 

"  Only  think,"  said  mademoiselle, 
sighing,  "  I  am  always  alone ;  and 
now  that  my  father  has  left  home,  .  .  . 
and  perhaps  for  such  a  long  time  !" 

"  Will  M.  le  Marquis  go  far  ?  ... 
Excuse  my  curiosity,"  said  Ragaud ; 
"  but  you  know,  mademoiselle,  I  only 
ask  the  question  from  the  great  in- 
terest I  feel  in  your  dear  family." 

Mademoiselle  was  about  to  reply ; 
but  Dame  Berthe  stopped  her  short 
by  glancing  at  Jeannette,  who  was 
listening  with  profound  attention. 

"  I  will  take  her  with  me,"  said 
she  in  a  low  tone  to  her  govern- 
ess, "and  then  tell  everything  to 
Ragaud ;  our  family  never  keeps  a 
secret  from  this  old  servant." 

When  mademoiselle  had  with- 
drawn, under  the  pretext  of  showing 
some  new  article  of  the  toilet  to 
Jeannette,  Dame  Berthe  carefully 
closed  the  door,  and  approached 
Ragaud. 

"  Can  I  rely  on  your  devotion  ?" 
she  asked  in  such  a  solemn  manner 
Ragaud  could  only  bow  his  head  in 
assent.  "  And  even  on  your  life  ?" 
continued  Dame  Berthe  with  a  still 
more  serious  air. 

"  If  I  must  give  it  in  exchange  for 
that  of  my  master,  yes,  certainly," 
replied  the  faithful  old  fellow  with- 
out any  hesitation. 

"  Very  well.  Sit  down,  Ragaud ; 
you  are  going  to  learn  a  secret — the 
greatest  secret  a  Christian  can  keep." 

Ragaud  sat  down,  rather  astonish 
ed,  his  heart  beating  in  spite  of 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


himself.  However,  strictly  speaking, 
the  words  of  Dame  Berthe  appeared 
a  little  exaggerated,  and  he  felt  so 
without  being  able  to  account  for  it, 
except  from  his  own  gO9d  sense. 

"  Master  Ragaud,"  said  the  govern- 
ess, who  was  a  devoted  reader  of 
newspapers,  and  had  learned  to  talk 
in  their  style,  "  great  events  are  pre- 
paring, and,  before.  lo»g,  the  face  of 
the  world  will  be  changed." 

"  Ah  !"  said  Ragaud.  "  Excuse  me, 
my  good  lady,  but  the  face  of  the 
world,  ...  I  don't  know  what  that 
means." 

"  When  I  speak  of  the  world," 
resumed  Dame  Berthe,  "  I  mean 
France — France — Ragaud,  our  coun- 
try." 

"  Now  I  understand  better ;  yes, 
I  know  that  France  is  our  country. 
Well,  then,  what  is  going  to  be 
changed  in  France  ?" 

"  Everything,"  said  she,  rising  in 
a  frantic  manner.  "  France,  my  good 
Ragaud,  is  tired  of  the  odious  yoke 
that  has  weighed  her  down  for  ten 
years." 

",  My  oxen  are  also  sometimes 
tired  of  the  yoke,"  said  Ragaud  dry- 
ly ;  "  but  that  does  not  pay  them 
while  the  whip  is  around." 

"  Yes,  but  a  nation  can't  be  whip- 
ped like  a  beast  of  burden,"  replied 
Dame  Berthe.  "  Come,  Ragaud,  I  see 
you  do  not  understand  what  I  am 
aiming  at." 

"  No,  not  at  all,"  said  he.  "  I  am 
not  learned,  my  good  lady;  some- 
times I  hear  such  expressions  as  you 
use  when  M.  le  Cure*  reads  aloud 
from  some  public  journal;  but,  be- 
tween ourselves,  it  always  puts  me  to 
sleep.  You  see,  the  useful  things  in 
the  newspapers,  for  a  farmer,  are  the 
price  of  grain  and  the  announce- 
ment of  the  fairs ;  the  rest  is  all  twad- 
dle for  me." 

"So  it  appears,"  answered  Dame 
Berthe,  a  little  hurt.  "  I  am  now  go- 


ing to  talk  in  a  way  that  you  can  un- 
derstand. Well,  then,  Ragaud,  M.  le 
Marquis  left  home  last  night.  Where 
do  you  think  he  has  gone  ?" 

"It  is  not  my  custom  to  inquire 
into  the  private  affairs  of  my  mas- 
ters," replied  Ragaud.  "  By  chance  I 
walked  through  my  garden  late  last 
night,  awd  I  saw  the  chateau  lighted 
up.  I  was  afraid  mademoiselle  was 
ill;  so  this  morning  I  brought  back 
Jeanne tte  to  amuse  her.  In  the 
court,  M.  Riponin  told  me  of  the 
departure  of  M.  le  Marquis ;  and 
now  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  anything 
further,  unless  you  judge  it  neces- 
sary." 

. "  It  will  certainly  be  useful,"  said 
Dame  Berthe,  who  was  longing  to  tell 
all  she  knew,  "  you  will  agree  with 
me,  M.  Ragaud,  when  you  know 
that  M.  le  Marquis  was  called  off 
by  a  letter,  which  assured  him  that 
they  were  only  waiting  for  him  ..." 

"  To  change  the  face  of  the  world" 
said  Ragaud  with  dry  humor. 

"  Precisely,"  replied  Berthe  serious- 
ly. "  It  appears  that  the  insurrection 
has  broken  out  near  Angers,  where 
there  are  thousands  of  armed  men. 
Monsieur,  who  fought  with  the  Chou- 
ans  in  his  youth,  will  be  appoint- 
ed general,  and  they  will  advance 
to  the  capture  of  Paris,  where  nothing 
is  suspected.  The  usurper  will  be 
driven  out,  M.  Ragaud,  and  our  dear 
young  legitimate  prince  will  ascend 
the  throne.  Won't  it  be  magnifi- 
cent ?  Dear  Eveline  will  go  to  court. 
Poor  child !  she  has  been  so  long 
tired  of  the  country." 

"  Hum ! "  said  Ragaud,  not  the 
least  bit  excited.  "Are  they  very 
sure  of  all  that?" 

"Sure?  How  can  it  be  doubted, 
when  the  friend  of  M.  le  Marquis  in 
that  province  declares,  do  you  un- 
derstand— declares  positively — that  it 
only  needs  a  spark  to  set  fire  to  the 
powder  ?" 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


43 


"  To  the  powder !"  cried  Ragaud, 
this  time  very  much  frightened.  "  Are 
they  dreaming  of  blowing  up  the  mag- 
azine at  Angers  ?  That  would  be 
a  terrible  misfortune,  my  dear  lady." 

"  Be  easy,"  replied  Dame  Berthe, 
shrugging  her  shoulders.  "  I  always 
forget  that  you  don't  read  the  papers. 
'  Setting  fire  to  the  powder '  means 
to  kindle  the  insurrection,  to  inflame 
the  minds  and  hearts  of  the  people ; 
and  it  is  expected  that,  at  the  first 
word,  the  country  will  rise  as  one 
man." 

"  They  are  going  to  fight  ?"  said 
Ragaud.  "  Battles  are  not  gay,  and 
the  poor  fare  badly  in  time  of  war." 

"  Fight  ?  Oh  !  you  are  blind,  my 
dear  M.  Ragaud,"  replied  Dame  Ber- 
the, laughing  with  the  most  charm- 
ing simplicity.  "  Do  you  expect  a 
few  little  regiments  to  withstand  mil- 
lions of  men  ?  Before  a  week,  the  in- 
surgents will  be  counted  by  millions. 
And  now,  if  you  wish  to  know  the 
real  truth,  .  .  .  well,  .  .  .  the  army 
itself  is  with  us." 

"  Ah !  indeed,"  said  Ragaud. 
"This  is  great  news." 

"  Do  you  think  those  gentlemen 
would  be  so  silly  as  to  commence 
the  work  without  being  assured  of 
this  support  ?"  replied  the  governess, 
clasping  her  hands.  "  My  God  !  Ra- 
ge*id,  for  whom  do  you  take  M.  le 
Marquis  and  his  friends  ?" 

"  For  brave  men,  most  assuredly," 
said  the  farmer,  unable  to  repress  a 
smile;  "and  since  all  is  so  well 
arranged,  Dame  Berthe,  allow  me, 
with  all  due  respect,  to  ask  you  two 
questions.  In  the  first  place,  when 
will  the  marriage  come  off?  In  the 
second,  what  does  my  dear  master 
wish  me  to  do  under  the  circumstan- 
ces ?" 

"  When  will  the  marriage  take 
place  ?  You  mean,  when  will  the 
king  enter  Paris  ?*' 

"  Just  so,  my  good  lady." 


"  I  don't  think  this  great  event  could 
possibly  take  place  before  a  month, 
or  three  weeks  at  soonest.  Although 
this  revolution,  inspired  by  God,  must, 
I  am  fully  convinced,  spread  likr 
lightning,  time  flies  rapidly ;  and  then 
we  must  always  think  of  unforeseen 
accidents." 

"  Doubtless,  doubtless ;  it  is  alway» 
more  prudent,"  said  Ragaud. 

"  As  for  what  M.  le  Marquis 
expects  of  you,  my  good  Ragaud, 
it  is  very  easy.  It  would  be  shame- 
ful, you  know,  when  all  France  is 
rising  in  arms  for  her  true  sovereign, 
to  see  Val-Saint  and  the  neighbor- 
hood sleeping  in  carelessness  and 
indolence.  You  are,  then,  designat- 
ed— you,  Jacques  Michou,  who  for 
forty  years  has  been  the  head-keeper 
of  the  estate,  Master  Perdreau,  the 
notary  of  the  family,  and  some  other 
old  servants — you  are  expected  to 
prepare  the  people  for  the  change 
about  to  take  place,  and  make  them 
cry  '  Long  live  the  King !'  through- 
out the  commune." 

"  And  if  they  won't  do  it  ?"  asked 
Ragaud  innocently ;  "  for,  in  truth, 
that  is  to  be  well  considered." 

"  They  will  do  it ;  they  will  all  do 
it,"  cried  Dame  Berthe.  "  France  is 
burning  with  the  desire  of  uttering 
this  cry  of  love  and  gratitude,"  she 
added,  remembering  that  she  had 
just  read  this  expression  in  her  morn- 
ing paper. 

"  So  much  the  better,"  said  Ra- 
gaud :  "  and  it  only  remains  to  thank 
you  for  your  confidence,  my  dear 
lady,  and  I  will  do  my  best  to  fulfil 
the  wishes  of  M.  le  Marquis." 

The  entrance  of  mademoiselle, 
who  thought  there  had  been  time 
enough  for  the  secret  to  be  told  and 
retold,  cut  short  the  conversation,  as 
she  brought  Jeannette  with  her.  Ra- 
gaud bowed  politely  to  the  ladies  of 
the  chateau,  kissed  his  daughter,  told 
her  to  be  good  and  obedient,  and 


44 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


closed  the  door  behind  him,  his  head 
full  of  all  he  had  just  heard. 

Dame  Berthe  overtook  him  at  the 
head  of  the  staircase. 

"  Ragaud,"  said  she,  "  you  told  me 
you  were  up  late  last  night.  Did  you 
not  see,  about  midnight,  a  blue  light 
go  up  from  the  summit  of  the 
tower?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Ragaud,  "  and  I 
was  dumb  with  astonishment;  I  do 
not  conceal  it." 

"  It  was  the  given  signal  to  warn 
several  chateaux  of  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  departure  of  M.  le  Mar- 
quis. Watch  all  these  nights,  for  we 
expect  a  messenger,  who  will  come 
to  announce  the  triumph  of  the  holy 
cause,  and  then  a  second  light  will 
go  up  at  the  same  hour.  This  one 
will  be  red,  and,  when  you  see  it,  you 
will  instantly  march,  with  the  armed 
bands  you  will  have  assembled,  to 
join  the  grand  army." 

"All  right,"  said  Ragaud;  "we 
will  do  our  best." 

And  he  descended  the  staircase 
slowly,  without  appearing  the  least 
excited. 

"  Eveline,"  said  Dame  Berthe, 
pressing  mademoiselle  to  her  breast, 
"  thank  God,  my  dear  child.  I  have 
had  the  happiness  of  completely 
winning  over  good  Ragaud  to  the 
holy  cause.  He  is  even  more  ardent 
than  myself,  and  as  well  disposed  as 
we  could  wish.  Before  long,  we  will 
see  Val-Saint  and  Ordonniers  rise 
and  march  to  victory  under  the  com- 
mand of  this  brave  peasant.  Jac- 
ques Cathelineau  and  M.  Stofflet 
should  be  of  the  same  stamp.  What 
I  admire  in  Ragaud  is  that  cold 
determination,  which  would  make 
one  fancy  he  was  not  enthusiastic ; 
but  I  am  not  deceived  by  appear- 
ances." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  mademoiselle, 
"  all  will  be  over  in  time  for  us  to  go 
and  finish  the  winter  in  Paris." 


"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,"  replied 
Dame  Berthe ;  "  and  thus,  my  dear 
child,  as  I  have  thought  the  dress- 
makers might  be  half  crazy  with  the 
quantity  of  court-dresses  that  would 
be  ordered,  I  have  already  decided 
what  your  costume  is  to  be  on  the 
entrance  of  the  king  into  Paris ;  for  I 
expect  the  daughter  of  the  command- 
er-in-chief  to  be  the  first  to  salute 
her  sovereign ;  and  I  will  immediate- 
ly commence  to  embroider  the  satin 
train,  so  as  to  be  ready." 

"  How  good  you  are  !  You  think 
of  everything !"  said  mademoiselle, 
very  much  overcome.  "  I  wish  I 
was  there  now  !  .  .  ." 

"  Oh  !"  cried  Dame  Berthe,  "  only 
be  patient." 

After  leaving  the  chateau,  Ragaud, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  went 
off  in  search  of  his  old  comrade,  Jac- 
ques Michou,  that  he  might  consult 
with  him  over  Dame  Berthe's  reve- 
lations. Jacques  lived  alone — being 
a  widower  and  childless — in  a  little 
house  close  to  the  edge  of  the  woods 
that  bordered  La  Range.  He  had 
no  one  about  him  but  a  niece  of  his 
late  wife,  whom  he  fed  and  clothed ; 
in  return  for  which,  she  cooked  for 
him  and  cleaned  his  hunting-gun. 
The  girl  was  little  trouble  to  him ; 
she  was  idiotic  and  half  dumb,  and, 
among  other  little  eccentricities,  liked 
to  sleep  with  the  sheep.  So,  in  the 
summer  she  camped  out  on  the 
meadow  with  the  flock,  and  in  win- 
ter slept  in  the  sheep-fold,  which  cer- 
tainly had  the  advantage  of  keeping 
her  very  warm,  but  could  have  had 
no  other  charm.  From  this  habit 
she  had  acquired  the  name  of  Bar- 
bette throughout  the  country  ;  and  it 
was  not  badly  given,  as  with  us  a 
great  many  shepherd-dogs  are  called 
Barbets,  on  account  of  the  race ;  and 
since  the  poor  girl  shared  their  office, 
she  had  at  least  a  claim  to  the  name 
if  she  so  pleased. 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


45 


Jacques  Michou,  on  his  side,  had 
his    particular   fancies.     First   of  all 
was  the  idea  (which  he  would  only 
give  up  with  his  life)  that,  in  virtue 
of  his  badge  and  his  gun,  he  Was  the 
head-keeper    of   M.   le    Marquis  de 
Val-Saint.     Now,  we  must  acknow- 
ledge it  was  mere  show,   there  was 
nothing  in  it;  for  our  good  lord  ne- 
ver wished  to  displease  any  one,  not 
even    the  poachers.     He  said  there 
was  always  some  good  in  those  men ; 
and  as  in  everything  he  pursued  one 
aim — which  was,  as  you  know,  to  en- 
rol one  day  or  other  all  our  boys  in  a 
regiment  for  the  benefit  of  the  king — 
he  preferred  to  be  kind  to  these  bold 
and  cunning  rascals,  who  were  not 
easily   hoodwinked.      After  a  while, 
Jacques  Michou  became  weary    of 
carrying  the  delinquents  before   M. 
le  Marquis  only  to  see  them  gracious- 
ly dismissed,  so  it  ended  by  his  let- 
ting them  alone;  and  at  the  end  of  a 
few   years,  his  principal   occupation 
was  to  carefully  keep  to  the  right  of 
the   estate    in    making    his    rounds 
when   he   knew   the  poachers  were 
at  work  on  the  left.     However,   he 
took  pride  in  letting  them  know  that 
each  and  every  one  could  be  caught 
at  any  moment  he  wished ;  he  knew 
every  path  in  the  woods  as  well  as 
the  bottom  of  his  sauce-pan,- and  all 
the  thieves  as  though  they  belonged 
to   his   family.     When    he    met  the 
rascals,    he    threatened    them    with 
loud  voice  and   gesture,  and  swore 
tremendous  oaths  that  made  heaven 
and  earth  tremble.    "  But,"  he  would 
shout,  "  what  can  I  do  ?     Robbers 
and  vagabonds  that  you  are,  if  M. 
le  Marquis  allows  himself  to  be  plun- 
dered,  the   servant    must  obey   the 
master's  orders;  but   for    that,    you 
would  see  !"   And  the  end  of  the  story 
was — nothing  was  seen. 

You  can  understand  very  well  that 
the  brave  old  fellow,  having  only  the 
title  of  keeper,  and  nothing  to  show 


for  it  but  the  fine  silver  badge,  en- 
graved with  the  arms  of  the  family 
of  Val-Saint,  which  he  wore  on  the 
shoulder-strap  of  his  game-bag,  clung 
all  the  closer  to  the  empty  honor; 
and  allowed  no  joking  on  the  subject; 
When  Ragaud  entered  his  friend's 
house,  he  found  him  carving  play- 
things out  of  cocoanut-shells — some- 
thing which  he  did  wonderfully  well — 
and  in  a  few  words  related  what  had 
taken  place  at  the  chateau. 

"  We  will  find  ourselves  flounder- 
ing in  the  mire,"  said  Ragaud.  "  As 
for  me,  I  am  ready  to  promise  before 
the  good  God  that  I  will  give  my 
life  to  fulfil  the  commands  of  our 
dear  master;  but  it  remains  to  be 
seen  if  many  around  here  are  of  my 
opinion." 

"  Many  ?"  exclaimed  Jacques, 
shrugging  his  shoulders.  "  Bah !  I 
am  very  sure  you  will  not  find  one 
out  of  a  dozen !" 

"If  it  is  true,"  replied  Ragaud, 
with  hesitation;  "I  wonder  if  it  is 
really  true  about  the  insurrection  in 
Anjou  ?" 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Jacques  Michou. 
"That  poor  M.  le  Marquis  is 
crazy  on  one  point,  which  takes  him 
out  of  the  country  every  five  or  six 
years  for  change  of  air,  and  that  is 
good  for  his  health;  for  every  man 
needs  hope  to  keep  him  well.  Xhat 
is  the  truth  of  the  business." 

"  Do  you  think,  then,  we  had  bet- 
ter not  attempt  to  fulfil  his  orders  ?" 
asked  Ragaud. 

"As  for  that,  a  good  master  must 
always  be  obeyed,  old  fellow;  we 
can  say  a  few  words  here  and  there 
quietly.  You  will  find  the  people 
as  stupid  as  owls,  and  they  will  un- 
derstand you  as  well  as  though  you 
spoke  Prussian.  We  shall  have  done 
our  duty.  As  to  monsieur,  he  will 
return  before  long,  a  little  cross  for 
the  moment,  but  not  at  all  discou- 
raged— take  my  word  for  it  " 


46 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


"  It  is  a  great  pity,"  said  Ragaud, 
"  that  a  man  of  such  great  good  sense 
couldn't  listen  to  reason  !  " 

"Why  so?"  replied  Jacques.  "A 
great  lord  like  him  is  bound  in  hon- 
or to  be  devoted,  body  and  soul,  to 
his  king;  for  you  see,  Ragaud,  the 
king  who  is  not  on  the  throne  is  the 
real  one — no  doubt  about  that.  But 
often  one  tumbles  over  in  running 
too  fast ;  and  since  it  appears  not  to 
be  the  will  of  the  good  God  that 
things  should  return  to  the  old  style, 
it  would  have  been  much  better  not 
to  have  sent  off  letters,  gone  off  at 
night,  and  fared  off  signals.  It  is  just 
as  if  they  had  played  the  flute.  Men 
stop  a  moment,  listen,  and  then,  the 
music  ended,  each  one  returns  to  his 
plough." 

"You  speak  capitally,"  said  Ra- 
gaud ;  "  it  is  just  what  I  think  also ;  so 
I  will  do  as  you  say — neither  more  nor 
less.  But  we  will  agree  on  one  point, 
old  fellow,  which  is,  to  have  an  eye 
on  the  chateau,  so  that  we  can  de- 
fend the  doors  if  the  women  are 
threatened." 

"Bah  !  bah  !  No  fear  about  that," 
said  Michou,  shaking  him  by  the 
hand.  "  I  will  give  my  life  for  all 
that  belong  to  the  house  of  Val-Saint, 
comrade.  I  would  as  willingly  fire 
a  pistol  in  defence  of  monsieur, 
mademoiselle,  and  the  old  fool  of  a 
governess,  as  for  the  hares  and  rab- 


bits on  the  estate.  But  for  these 
it  would  be  powder  thrown  away, 
as  monsieur,  we  must  believe,  only 
likes  butcher's  meat,  and  prefers 
to  leave  his  game  for  those  devils 
of  thieves!" 

Thereupon  the  worthy  old  souls 
refreshed  themselves  with  a  jug  of 
cider,  and  conversed  together  for 
some  time  longer,  principally  repeat- 
ing the  same  ideas  on  the  same  sub- 
ject, which  was  the  one  we  have  just 
related — something  which  often  hap- 
pens to  wiser  men  than  they,  and, 
therefore,  I  consider  it  useless  to  tell 
you  any  more  of  their  honest  gos- 
sip. 

They  separated  about  mid-day, 
and  I  will  inform  you  what  was  the 
result  of  the  great  insurrection.  At 
Angers,  as  with  us,  it  was  as  Mi- 
chou hall  predicted.  M.  le  Marquis 
returned  from  his  trip  rather  fa- 
tigued and  thoroughly  disgusted  with 
France,  which  he  called  a  ruined 
country.  Mademoiselle  wept  for  a 
week  that  she  could  not  go  to  Paris. 
Dame  Berthe  commenced  Novenas 
to  the  Blessed  Queen  Jeanne,  in 
order  that  the  next  enterprise,  which 
would  not  be  long  delayed,  might 
succeed  better  than  the  last;  and 
the  result  of  all  was  that  Jeannette 
remained  more  than  ever  at  the  cha- 
eau,  as  she  was  the  greatest  conso- 
lation to  her  dear  godmother. 


x. 


I  think  we  will  do  well,  at  this  pe- 
riod of  our  story,  to  pass  over  several 
years,  during  which  time  nothing  of 
great  importance  occurred.  In  the 
country,  days  succeed  each  other 
in  undisturbed  tranquillity,  unmark- 
ed by  many  great  events.  Accord- 
ing as  the  spring  is  rainy  or  dry,  the 
villagers  commence  the  season  by 
making  predictions  about  the  sum- 
mer, which,  twenty  times  out  of  twen- 


ty-two, are  never  fulfilled.  It  must 
be  acknowledged  that  we  peasants 
seem  afraid  to  appear  too  well  pleas- 
ed with  the  good  God;  and,  though 
it  is  a  great  fault,  unfortunately 
it  is  not  rare.  Men  grumble  and 
swear,  first  at  the  sun,  and  then  at 
the  wind,  for  burning  and  parching 
their  fields;  and  when  the  rain  com- 
mences, there  is  another  cause  for 
displeasure;  and  most  of  all,  at  the 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


47 


end  of  summer,  when,  after  these 
doleful  repinings,  the  harvests  have 
been  plentiful,  far  from  thanking  the 
Lord  God,  who,  instead  of  punishing 
them,  has  sent  blessings,  they  in- 
stantly commence  to  worry  about 
the  approaching  vintage.  And  so 
S.  Sylvester's  day  finds  them  with 
well-stacked  barns  and  cellars  filled 
with  barrels  of  wine,  but  not  to 
make  them  wiser  the  year  after  from 
such  experience,  which  should  teach 
them  faith  in  divine  Providence. 

Whence  I  conclude  that  men  are 
only  incorrigible,  gabbling  children, 
and  that  the  good  God  must  have 
great  patience  and  mercy  to  tolerate 
them.  Much  more  could  be  said  on 
this  subject;  but,  not  being  a  priest, 
I  prefer  to  leave  off  moralizing,  and 
return  to  our  friends. 

Therefore,  we  will,  if  you  please, 
resume  our  narrative  about  seven 
years  from  where J  we  left  off,  at 
which  time  Jeannette  Ragaud  had 
nearly  completed  her  sixteenth  year 
and  Jean-Louis  his  twentieth. 

Weeks  and  months,  rapidly  passing, 
had  brought  them  from  childhood  to 
youth  without  their  knowing  it,  and 
they  had  each  followed  their  inclina- 
tions, as  might  easily  have'  been  fore- 
seen. Jeannette,  well  educated,  co- 
quettish, and  extremely  pretty,  was 
the  most  charming  little  blonde  in 
the  province.  She  scarcely  ever 
came  to  Muiceron,  except  on  Sun- 
days and  festivals,  between  Mass 
and  Vespers ;  and  if  you  ask  me  how 
this  could  have  happened,  so  con- 
trary, as  you  know,  to  the  wishes  of 
father  and  mother  Ragaud,  I  will 
reply  that  I  know  nothing,  unless 
there  is  a  special  wind  which  blows 
sometimes  over  men's  desires,  and 
prevents  their  ripening  into  facts. 
To  be  convinced  of  this  truth  needs 
only  a  little  unreserved  frankness. 
See,  now,  you  who  listen  to  me, 
you  may  be  more  learned  than 


a  schoolmaster,  and  more  malicious 
than  a  hump-back — that  I  will  not 
dispute;  but  if  you  will  swear  to 
me  that  everything  in  this  life  has 
happened  as  you  desired,  without 
change  or  contradiction,  I  will  not 
hesitate  to  think  you,  but  for  the 
charity  which  should  reign  among 
Christians,  the  greatest  liar  in  your 
parish. 

If  any  one  spoke  to  Ragaud  about 
the  dangerous  road  in  which  he  had 
placed  his  daughter,  and  that  there 
was  no  longer  chance  to  retrace  his 
steps,  he  did  not  show  displeasure  or 
excuse  himself,  as  heretofore.  His 
serious  and  rather  sorrowful  air,  join- 
ed to  a  very  convenient  little  cough, 
showed  more  than  by  words  that  he 
did  not  know  how  to  reply,  and  the 
poor  man  was  truly  sensible  of  his 
weakness  and  error;  but  what  could 
he  do  ?  Something  always  happen- 
ed to  prevent  him  from  carrying  out 
his  intention  of  taking  Jeannette  from 
the  chateau. 

Sometimes  mademoiselle  was  sick ; 
sometimes  it  was  a  festival  of  the 
church  that  needed  a  reinforcement 
of  skilled  embroiderers  to  make 
vestments  and  flowers  for  the  altars ; 
another  day  Dame  Berthe  had  gone 
off  for  a  month's  vacation.  In  win- 
ter the  pretext  was  that  Jeannette's 
health  would  be  endangered  if  she 
resumed  her  peasant  life,  as  she  could 
not  bear  the  exposure;  and  when 
that  was  over,  the  summer  days 
were  so  long,  mademoiselle  would 
have  died  of  ennui  without  her  dar- 
ling Jeannette;  and  all  this  mademoi- 
selle explained  with  such  a  gentle, 
winning  air,  old  Ragaud  never  could 
refuse  her ;  so  that  at  last  he  was  so 
accustomed  to  ask  and  be  refused 
each  time  that  he  went  for  Jeannette, 
he  finally  abandoned  the  attempt; 
and  seeing  that  his  visits  to  the 
chateau  were  mere  matters  of  form, 
he  submitted  with  good  grace,  by 


48 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


making  none   at  all,   at  least   with 
that  intention. 

As  for  good  Pierrette,  she  remain- 
ed quiet;  but  accustomed  to  submit, 
and  filled  besides  with  admiration 
for  the  great  good  sense  of  her  hus- 
band, she  told  all  her  troubles  to 
the  good  God,  and  awaited,  without 
complaint,  the  time  when  he  would 
decree  a  change.  But  yet  I  must 
say  things  were  not  so  bad  as  you 
might  fancy.  Life  at  the  chateau 
had  not  spoiled  Jeannette's  heart. 
She  was  rather  light-hearted,  and  the 
vanity  of  fine  clothes  had  more  effect 
on  her  than  that  of  position  ;  but  as 
for  her  parents,  she  adored  them, 
and  overwhelmed  them  with  embra- 
ces and  kisses  on  her  visits  to  the 
farm,  which  gave  her  undisguised 
pleasure.  Our  curt,  who  watched 
her  closely,  and  who  never  liked  to 
see  country  girls  quit  the  stable  for 
the  drawing-room,  was  forced  to  ac- 
knowledge that  the  affair  had  not 
turned  out  so  badly  as  he  appre- 
hended; and  although  he  did  not 
hesitate  to  scold  mademoiselle  for 
spoiling  Jeannette — which  he  had 
the  right  to  do,  as  he  had  known  her 
from  her  birth,  and  had  also  baptized 
her — it  was  easy  to  see,  by  his  fond, 
paternal  air,  that  he  loved  the  child 
as  much  as  at  the  time  when  Ger- 
maine  whipped  her. 

I  will  also  tell  you  that  this  good 
pastor  was  beginning  to  feel  the 
weight  of  years.  He  lost  strength 
daily,  and,  like  all  holy  men,  his 
character  softened  as  he  drew  nearer 
to  the  good  God.  Besides,  fearing 
that  soon  he  would  be  unable  to  visit 
his  beloved  flock,  he  thought  rightly 
it  was  better  not  to  be  too  severe,  as 
it  might  wean  them  from  him. 

"  For,"  said  he,  "  if  it  is  true  that 
flies  are  not  caught  by  vinegar,  it  is 
still  more  evident  that  men  are  never 
won  by  scolding  and  threats." 

It  was  a  sound  argument,  and,  con- 


sequently, who  was  more  venerated 
than  the  curt  of  Val-Saint  ?  I  will 
give  only  one  proof.  His  parishion- 
ers, seeing  that  walking  fatigued 
him,  consulted  among  themselves  at 
a  fair,  and  resolved  to  buy  him  a 
steady  animal,  with  a  sheep-skin  sad- 
dle and  leather  reins,  embroidered  in 
red,  according  to  the  country  fash- 
ion. 

It  so  happened  that  just  at  that 
moment  a  pedlar,  owning  a  good 
mule,  wished  to  barter  it  for  a 
draught-horse,  put  up  for  sale  by 
a  farmer  from  Charbonniere.  The 
bargain  was  made  after  a  short  par- 
ley, and  our  good  friends  returned 
home  joyfully,  and,  without  saying  a 
word,  tied  their  present  to  the  tree 
before  the  priest's  house.  It  was 
too  good  an  act  to  be  kept  silent; 
the  next  day  the  curd  and  all  the 
parish  knew  it.  I  need  not  ask 
who  was  deeply ''moved.  The  fol- 
lowing Sunday  our  dear  curt  thank- 
ed his  flock  with  words  that  repaid 
them  a  hundred-fold ;  and  really,  if 
you  know  anything,  about  country 
people,  you  must  say,  without  mean- 
ing any  wrong  by  it,  they  are  not 
accustomed  to  be  generous;  there- 
fore, a  little  praise  was  fully  their 
due. 

As  for  the  mule,  it  was  a  famous 
beast.  She  was  black,  and  sniffed 
the  air  at  such  a  rate,  she  always 
seemed  eager  to  start  off  at  full  gal- 
lop ;  but,  fortunately  for  our  dear  old 
curt,  it  was  only  a  little  coquetry  she 
still  practised  in  remembrance  of 
her  youthful  days,  and  never  went 
further.  After  making  six  or  seven 
paces,  she  became  calmer,  dropped 
her  head,  and  trotted  along  as  quietly 
as  a  lady  taking  up  a  collection  in 
the  church.  Otherwise  she  was  gen- 
tle and  easily  managed,  except  at 
the  sight  of  water,  into  which  she 
never  could  be  induced  to  put  her 
foot. 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


49 


"  But  who  has  not  his  faults  ?"  as 
the  beadle  of  Val-Saint  was  accus- 
tomed to  say  to  his  wife,  when  she 
scolded  him  for  returning  home  rath- 
er the  worse  for  having  raised  his 
elbow  too  often. 

In  speaking  a  little  here  and  there 
about  each  and  every  one,  don't 
think  that  I  have  forgotten  Jean- 
Louis  ;  on  the  contrary,  I  have  kept 
the  dear  boy  as  the  choicest  mor- 
sel. 

You  must  not  expect  me  to  relate 
in  detail  all  his  acts  and  gestures.  In 
the  first  place,  he  spoke  little,  and 
what  he  said  was  so  kind  and  gentle 
that,  if  he  was  forced  to  deal  with 
the  noisiest  brawler  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, he  soon  conquered  him  by  his 
mildness.  One  reason  of  this  was 
that,  having  learned  so  young  the 
painful  circumstances  of  his  birth,  and 
being  proud  by  nature,  he  controlled 
himself  before  people,  in  order  not  to 
provoke  any  insolence.  I  must  also 
add  that  the  greater  part  of  our 
young  men  get  into  trouble  over 
their  wine  ;  and  for  Jeannet  there  was 
nothing  to  fear  in  that  respect.  Why, 
you  can  easily  guess :  because  he 
knew  nothing  of  the  tavern,  but  the 
entrance  and  the  sign — just  what  could 
be  seen  in  passing  along  the  street. 

The  good  fellows,  his  companions, 
loved  him  dearly ;  the  wicked  were 
forced  to  respect  him,  and  feared  him 
also,  as  Jeannet  had  grown  up  tall, 
and  had  arms  strong  enough  to  stop 
a  mad  bull ;  and  as  for  work,  no  one 
could  compete  with  him.  Only  one 
thing  on  earth  he  feared,  and  that 
was  to  commit  a  sin.  And  do  you 
know,  that  those  who  have  only  this 
fear  can  overcome,  with  a  sign,  a  rag- 
ing madman  ?  It  daily  happens,  as 
much  in  the  city,  among  the  black 
coats,  as  in  the  village,  among  the 
blouses.  Try  it,  and  you  will  be 
convinced,  and  then  you  will  ac- 
knowledge I  speak  the  truth. 


The  Ragauds,  as  they  watched 
this  pearl  of  a  boy  grow  up,  learned 
to  love  him  more  than  many  parents 
do  their  legitimate  sons.  He  was 
worth  five  hired  men,  and  Ragaud, 
with  his  strict  sense  of  justice,  had 
calculated  the  value  to  the  last  cent, 
and  for  the  past  ten  years  had  plac- 
ed to  his  credit  in  the  savings-bank, 
every  ist  of  January,  one  thousand 
francs,  upon  which  the  interest  was 
accruing.  Jean-Louis  knew  nothing 
of  the  secret,  and  never  did  he 
dream  his  labor  was  worth  remune- 
ration. The  boy's  mind  and  heart 
were  so  thoroughly  at  ease  that, 
knowing  he  had  not  a  cent,  and 
nothing  to  expect  on  the  death  of 
his  parents,  as  they  had  a  daughter, 
he  never  troubled  himself  about  the 
present  or  the  future,  believing  firmly 
that  the  good  God,  who  had  given 
him  a  family,  would  provide  for  his 
daily  wants ;  for  this  second  blessing 
was  nothing,  in  his  eyes,  in  compari- 
son with  the  first. 

Pierrette  was  careful  that  her  Ben- 
jamin's pocket  was  never  empty. 
At  Easter  and  on  S.  John's  day  she 
always  gave  him  a  five-franc  piece; 
and  even  this  was  often  too  much, 
as  Jeannet's  clothes  and  linen  were 
always  kept  in  perfect  order  by  his 
devoted  mother,  and,  consequently,, 
as  he  never  indulged  in  dissipation, 
and  seldom  joined  in  the  village 
games,  he  did  not  know  how  to  spend 
it.  He  would  have  liked  sometimes 
to  treat  himself  to  a  book  when  the 
pedlar — the  same  who  had  sold  the 
mule  to  the  farmers  for  M.  le  Cure — 
came  around,  and  Ragaud,  sure  now 
of  his  good  conduct,  would  certainly 
not  have  objected;  but  one  day,, 
after  having  searched  over  the  pack- 
age, he  bought  for  thirty  sous  what 
he  thought  was  a  good  and  entertain- 
ing work,  as  it  bore  the  seal  placed  by 
the  government  on  all  publications 
peddled  through  the  country ;  but,  to 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


his  horror,  he  found  it  filled  with 
villanous  sentiments.  This  saddened 
and  disgusted  him  for  several  days; 
these  thirty  sous  laid  heavy  on  his 
mind,  not  from  the  avaricious 
thought  that  he  had  thrown  his 
money  to  the  wind,  but  from  the 
idea  that  he  had  wronged  the  poor ; 
for  thirty  sous  was  the  exact  price  of 
a  six-pound  loaf  of  bread  of  the  best 
quality.  Between  ourselves,  I  verily 
believe  he  accused  himself  of  it  in 
confession,  as  what  I  ever  heard  of 
the  good  boy  makes  me  think  it  most 
likely  he  would  do  so. 

Perhaps  you  would  like  to  know 
if  Jean-Louis  had  grown  up  handsome 
or  ugly.  Well,  he  was  ugly,  at  least 
according  to  common  opinion ;  we 
villagers  admire  red  faces  and  those 
who  look  well  fed,  and  dress  showily. 
Jeannet's  face  was  long  and  pale ;  his 
features  delicate;  teeth  white  and 
beautiful,  in  a  large  mouth  that  sel- 
dom smiled  ;  and  his  deep,  dark  eyes 
were  brilliant  as  stars;  and  when 
those  eyes  looked  in  displeasure  at 
any  one,  they  were  fearful.  Besides, 
Jean-Louis,  who  was  tall,  appeared 
so  thin  you  would  have  thought 
him  a  young  gray-beard,  ready  to 
break  in  two  at  the  first  breath  of 
wind.  With  us,  thin  people  who 
have  not  a  pound  of  flesh  on  their 
bones  are  not  admired,  and  it  is 
quite  an  insult  to  be  called  thin.  I 
think  that  is  all  nonsense,  for  vigor 
does  not  come  from  fat,  but  from 
good  health,  flesh  strengthened  by 
exercise  and  good  habits;  and  as 
Jeannet  was  acknowledged  to  be  the 
strongest  boy  in  the  neighborhood, 
he  was  only  called  thin  from  jealousy, 
as  he  certainly  could  thank  God  for 
being  a  sound  young  man,  as  strong 
as  the  foundation  of  a  barn. 

The  only  amusement  he  allowed 
himself  was  sometimes,  on  great  fes- 
tivals, to  assist  at  the  pigeon-shoot- 
ing which  M.  le  Marquis  had  estab- 


lished on  the  lawn  before  the  chateau. 
It  was  a  difficult  game,  which  de- 
manded good  sight,  coolness,  and, 
above  all,  great  strength  of  wrist. 
Jeannet,  on  two  successive  years,  car- 
ried off  the  prize;  the  first  was  a  sil- 
ver goblet,  the  second  a  beautiful 
knife,  fork,  and  spoon  of  the  same 
metal.  On  these  occasions  his  pale 
face  became  red  with  pleasure;  do 
you  think  it  was  from  vanity  ?  Not 
at  all.  If  his  heart  beat  quickly,  it 
was  at  the  thought  of  the  splendid 
presents  he  would  make  his  good 
mother  Pierrette ;  and,  in  reality,  he 
made  her  promise  she  would  never 
drink  a  drop  or  eat  a  mouthful  but 
out  of  the  goblet  or  with  the  knife 
and  fork.  We  must  say,  in  spite  of 
the  crowns  heaped  up  at  Muiceron, 
the  earthen  pipe  and  tin  cups  were 
alone  used.  At  first  Pierrette  was  ill 
at  ease  with  her  silver  service,  but 
she  nevertheless  accustomed  herself 
to  the  use  of  it,  so  as  to  please  Jean- 
net;  and  at  last,  to  make  her  feel 
more  comfortable,  Ragaud,  on  his 
next  trip  to  the  city,  bought  himself 
a  similar  -set,  very  fine,  for  eighty- 
four  francs,  which  he  constantly  said 
was  rather  dear;  but  at  heart  he 
thought  it  very  suitable,  as  it  was 
not  proper  for  his  wife  to  eat  with 
silver  and  he  with  tin ;  and  to  Jean- 
net's  mind,  who  regretted  that  he 
had  not  drawn  four  prizes  instead  of 
two,  so  as  to  delight  both  his  dear 
parents,  a  brighter  idea  had  never 
entered  his  good  father's  head. 

If  I  relate  all  these  little  anecdotes 
at  length,  it  is  to  show  you  Jeannet's 
good  heart ;  and  without  speaking  ill 
of  little  Jeannette,  who  had  also  her 
fine  points,  I  think  her  brother  sur- 
passed her  in  delicate  attention  to 
their  parents,  which  I  attribute  to 
the  difference  in  their  education. 
Believe  me,  it  is  always  better  to  let 
a  cabbage  remain  a  cabbage,  and 
never  attempt  to  graft  a  melon  upon 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


it.  You  will  make  nothing  worth 
eating ;  for  the  good  God,  who  creat- 
ed the  cabbage  on  one  side,  and  the 
melon  on  the  other,  likes  each  to  re- 
main in  its  place,  without  which  you 
will  have  a  hybrid  vegetable,  which 
will  not  really  be  of  either  species. 

Pierrette,  like  a  true  woman,  know- 
ing Jeannet's  excellence,  often  thought 
he  could  make  some  woman  very 
happy,  and  that  it  was  her  duty  to 
speak  to  him  of  marriage,  since  he 
was  twenty  years  old,  and  they  knew 
he  would  never  have  to  enter  the 
army,  even  though  he  should  draw 
the  fatal  number.  One  evening,  when 
she  was  spinning  beside  the  hearth, 
with  Jean-Louis  near  her,  making 
a  net  for  catching  birds,  she  com- 
menced to  speak  of  the  happiness  of 
her  married  life,  the  blessings  she  had 
received  from  heaven,  and  her  per- 
fect contentment  on  all  points.  Jean- 
Louis  listened  with  pleasure,  and  ac- 
knowledged that  a  happy  marriage 
was  something  to  be  envied,  but,  ac- 
cording to  his  custom,  never  thinking 
of  himself,  he  did  not  dream  of  wish- 
ing this  fine  destiny  might  one  day 
be  his. 

"  And  you,  my  Jean,  would  you 
not  like  to  marry  ?" 

Jean-Louis  dropped  his  shuttle, 
and  looked  at  Pierrette  with  aston- 
ishment. 

"  What  an  idea !"  said  he.  "  I  have 
never  even  thought  of  it,  dear  mo- 
ther." 

"  It  is  nevertheless  very  simple, 
my  son.  Ragaud  was  your  age  when 
he  married  me,  and,  when  his  parents 
asked  him  the  same  question,  he 
thought  it  right,  and  instantly  re- 
plied, yes !" 

"  Doubtless  he  knew  you,  and 
even  loved  you ;  then  I  could  easily 
understand  it." 

"That  is  true,"  replied  Pierrette, 
slightly  blushing;  "  for  a  year  before, 
the  dear  man  had  cast  glances  at  me 


on  Sundays  at  High  Mass ;  at  least, 
he  told  me  so  after  we  were  engaged. 
Why  don't  you  do  likewise  ?" 

"  For  that,  I  should  be  obliged  to 
think  of  some  of  the  girls  around  us, 
and  I  have  never  troubled  myself 
about  them  yet." 

"  That  is  queer,"  said  Pierrette  in- 
nocently. "  You  are  not  like  other 
men ;  for  without  showing  particular 
attention,  it  is  allowable  to  look  at 
the  girls  around  when  one  wishes  to 
be  established." 

"  Bah  !"  said  Jeannet ;  "  but  I  don't 
care  about  anything  of  the  kind. 
When  I  am  in  the  village  on  Sun- 
day, I  have  something  else  to  think 
about." 

"  About  what,  dear  boy  ?" 

"  Well,  then,  I  think  that  we  will 
all  be  quiet  at  Muiceron  until  eve- 
ning, and  I  hasten  to  return,  so  as  to 
sit  down  near  you,  as  I  am  now,  and 
laugh  and  talk  to  amuse  you ;  and  I 
don't  wish  any  other  pleasure.  Be- 
sides, it  is  the  only  time  in  the  week 
when  we  can  see  Jeannette ;  and,  to 
speak  the  truth,  dear  mother,  I  would 
not  give  that  up  for  all  the  marriages 
in  the  world." 

"  All  very  well,"  replied  Pierrette ; 
"  but  without  giving  up  those  plea- 
sures, you  can  take  a  wife." 

"  Oh !"  said  Jeannet,  "  I  see  that 
you  are  tired  of  me.  or  else  you 
would  not  speak  thus." 

"  What  do  you  say  ?"  replied  Pier- 
rette, kissing  him  on  the  forehead. 
"It  is  not  right  to  speak  so,  and 
surely  you  do  not  mean  it.  On  the 
contrary,  whether  you  marry  or 
remain  single,  I  never  wish  you  to 
leave  me.  There  is  room  enough  for 
another  woman,  and  even  for  chil- 
dren. What  I  proposed,  my  Jean, 
was  for  your  happiness,  and  nothing 
else." 

"  Well,  then,  dear  mother,  let  me 
remain  as  I  am  ;  I  never  can  be  hap- 
pier than  now." 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


"  But  when  we  come  to  die,  it  will 
be  so  sad  to  leave  you  alone !" 

Jeannet  started  up,  and  leaned 
against  the  mantel.  A  clap  of  thun- 
der at  the  time  would  not  have  as- 
tonished him  more  than  such  a 
speech.  He  to  be  left  alone  in  the 
world,  no  longer  to  have  his  father 
and  mother  beside  him  !  And  never- 
theless it  was  something  to  be  an- 
ticipated ;  but  his  life  flowed  on  so 
smoothly  and  happily,  the  thought 
of  such  a  misfortune  had  never  be- 
fore struck  terror  to  his  heart. 

He  remained  silent  a  moment, 
looking  fixedly  at  the  bright  wood 
fire  that  burned  upon  the  hearth; 
and  suddenly,  as  it  often  happens 
when  some  remark  has  penetrated 
the  very  soul,  he  saw,  as  in  a  picture, 
his  dear  good  mother  Pierrette  and 
father  Ragaud  stretched  on  their 
biers,  and  laid  in  the  cold  ground,  in 
the  dread  repose  of  death  that  never 
awakens.  But,  no  !  it  was  not  possi- 
ble ;  and  yet  it  happens  any  day, 
sometimes  for  one,  sometimes  for  an- 
other. Muiceron,  where  they  all  liv- 
ed in  tranquil  happiness,  was  truly 
a  paradise  on  earth,  but  most  assur- 
edly not  the  celestial  paradise  where 
immortality  alone  exists. 

For  the  first  time  since  the  me- 
morable day  when  he  had  suffered 
so  cruelly  on  learning  the  secret  of 
his  birth,  Jeannet  felt  his  poor  heart 
ache  with  a  similar  grief.  Pierrette, 
who  thought  it  perfectly  natural  to 
have  opened  his  eyes  to  such  a  de- 
sirable event,  continued  her  spin- 
ning. Seeing  Jean-Louis  in  deep 
thought,  and  receiving  no  answer, 
she  simply  fancied  her  argument  had 
been  conclusive,  and  that  he  felt  the 
necessity  of  establishing  himself,  and 
so  was  debating  in  his  own  mind  the 
relative  attractions  of  the  girls  in  the 
neighborhood.  Besides,  Jeannet's 
back  was  to  her,  and  she  did  not 
see  the  change  in  his  face. 


"Think  a  little,"  said  she,  pur- 
suing  her  idea ;  "  there  is  no  greater 
pleasure  for  parents  who  feel  them- 
selves growing  old  than  to  see  their 
children  well  married.  Then  they 
can  die  in  peace,  thinking  that,  after 
they  are  gone,  nothing  will  be 
changed;  only,  instead  of  the  old 
people,  young  ones  will  take  their 
place,  the  work  will  go  on,  all  hearts 
will  be  happy,  and  kind  prayers  and 
fond  recollections  will  follow  them 
to  the  tomb." 

"  Oh  !"  cried  Jean-Louis,  covering 
his  face  with  his  hands,  "  if  you  say 
another  word,  I  will  die  !" 

"What!"  said  Pierrette,  "die — 
of  what  ?  Are  you  ill  ?" 

Jeannet,  in  spite  of  his  twenty 
years,  burst  into  tears  like  a  little 
child;  he  clasped  Pierrette  in  his 
arms,  fondly  embraced  her,  and  said 
in  a  tone  melting  with  tenderness : 

"  My  mother,  my  dear,  dear  mo- 
ther, I  shall  never  marry — never,  do 
you  hear  ?  And  I  beg  of  you  never 
to  mention  the  subject  again.  I 
have  but  one  heart,  and  that  I  have 
given  you  undivided;  nothing  remains 
for  another.  When  you  speak  of 
marriage,  it  makes  us  think  of  death 
and  the  grave;  and  that  is  beyond 
my  strength — I  cannot  speak  of  it. 
If  the  good  God  calls  you  before  me, 
my  dearest  mother,  it  will  not  be 
long  before  I  rejoin  you ;  and  thus  it 
will  be  better  for  me  to  die  single 
than  to  leave  a  family  after  me.  And 
now,  as  I  do  not  wish  to  marry,  and 
you  only  desire  my  happiness,  do  not 
urge  me  further." 

"  Your  heart  is  too  gentle  for  a 
man,"  said  Pierrette,  feeling  the  tears 
of  her  dear  child  on  her  brow ;  "  you 
make  me  happy,  even  while  opposing 
me,  and  I  see  that  I  have  made  you 
unhappy  without  wishing  it.  Be 
consoled,  my  Jeannet ;  we  will  never 
speak  ofct  again.  If  you  change  your 
mind,  you  will  tell  me.  Meanwhile, 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


53 


we  will  live  as  before.  Don't  be 
worried ;  it  will  be  a  long  time  yet 
before  we  leave  you.  I  am  in  good 
health,  and  your  father  also  ;  and  so 
Muiceron  will  not  change  masters 
soon." 

"  No,  no,  thank  God !"  cried  Jean- 
Louis;  "  the  Blessed  Virgin  will  watch 
over  us.  We  have  not  lived  together 
for  twenty  years  now  to  separate,  my 
darling  mother !" 

Truth  to  say,  this  was  not  very 
sound  argument ,  for,  whether  twenty 
years  together,  or  thirty,  or  forty, 
friends  must  separate,  all  the  same, 
at  the  appointed  hour;  but  Jeannet 
spoke  with  his  heart  torn  with  sorrow, 
and  Pierrette  was  perfectly  willing  to 
acknowledge,  in  her  turn,  that  she 
really  desired  things  should  happen 
as  he  wished. 

From  that  time  the  question  of 
marriage  was  put  in  her  pocket,  and 
never  taken  out  again.  God  and  his 
holy  angels  looked  down  with  delight 
upon  this  innocent  household,  full  "of 
tenderness  and  kindness,  and  did  not 
allow  evil  to  overshadow  it.  How- 
ever, the  child  Jeannette  deserved  to 
be  cured  of  her  little  sins  of  vanity, 
and  you  will  see  the  means  taken  by 
the  Heavenly  Father  to  make  her  a 
Christian  according  to  his  will. 

XI. 

About  this  time  came  a  year  which 
is  still  remembered,  although  a  good 
long  time  has  since  elapsed.  Swarms 
of  locusts  devoured  the  young  wheat 
before  it  ripened,  while  the  field-mice* 
moles,  and  other  villanous  pests, 
gnawed  and  destroyed  it  at  the  roots. 
Corn  especially  suffered  in  this  un- 
lucky season;  not  a  plant  escaped. 
Before  it  had  grown  ten  feet  in  height, 
it  was  blighted,  and  then  withered 
and  died.  It  would  take  too  long 
to  enumerate  all  the  difficulties  that 
overwhelmed  the  peasants.  Hail- 
storms beat  down  the  meadows  at  hay- 


making time ;  splendid  cows  died  of 
the  pest;  sheep  were  suddenly  at- 
tacked and  perished;  and  as  for  the 
horses,  decimated  by  the  glanders, 
which  became  epidemic,  and  was 
very  dangerous,  as  it  often  passed 
from  animals  to  men,  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  count  the  victims. 

This  year,  at  least,  those  who  had 
begun  the  season  by  prophesying 
evil  had  their  predictions  fully  accom- 
plished; but,  thank  God!  such  an 
unfortunate  season  rarely  happens. 
The  poor  people  were  fearfully  dis- 
couraged; and,  in  sooth,  it  was  not 
strange  that  men  dreaded  the  future, 
in  face  of  such  a  present. 

Nevertheless,  greater  activity  was 
never  seen  in  the  fields.  To  save  the 
little  that  remained,  each  one  did  his 
best,  even  down  to  the  little  children, 
in  reaping,  gathering  the  harvest,  pil- 
ing the  carts,  in  spite  of  the  locusts, 
the  hail,  and  the  devil,  who  was  said 
to  have  a  great  deal  to  do  with  the 
affair,  and  which  I  am  very  much  in- 
clined to  believe.  The  people  even 
worked  until  late  in  the  night.  It  was 
a  devouring  fever,  which  made  every 
one  half  crazy,  and  it  was  a  miracle 
that  no  one  died  of  it;  for,  in  our 
province,  we  are  accustomed  to  work 
slowly,  without  hurry  or  excitement, 
and  it  is  commonly  believed  every- 
thing happens  when  and  how  it  is 
decreed,  but  none  the  worse  on  that 
account;  but  I  wish  to  prove  that 
they  could  hurry  up  when  occasion 
required. 

Our  friend,  Jean-Louis,  did  won- 
ders in  these  sad  circumstances.  He 
seemed  to  be  everywhere  at  once — in 
the  fields,  the  stables,  at  the  head  of 
the  reapers,  at  the  barn  when  the 
carts  were  unloaded;  encouraging 
some,  urging  on  others,  in  a  friendly 
way ;  hurrying  up  the  cattle ;  when 
necessary,  giving  a  helping  hand  to 
the  veterinary  surgeon ;  and,  with- 
al, gentle  and  kind  to  everybody. 


54 


The  Farm  of  M nicer  on. 


You  think  that,  with  order,  energy, 
and  intelligence,  work  will  always  be 
rewarded  with  success.  He  who  first 
said,  "  Help  yourself,  and  Heaven 
will  aid  you,"  did  not  speak  falsely. 
God  does  not  work  miracles  for  those 
who  fold  their  arms  in  idleness,  but 
he  always  gives  to  humble  and  perse- 
vering labor  such  abundant  reward 
that,  for  many  centuries,  no  matter 
what  may  be  the  suffering,  the  truth 
of  the  Holy  Scriptures  has  always 
been  verified,  that  "  never  has  any 
one  seen  the  just  man  die  of  hunger, 
or  his  seed  begging  their  bread." 

In  virtue  of  this  rule,  it  came  to 
pass  that,  at  Muiceron,  the  harvest 
of  hay,  as  well  as  of  wheat,  rye,  and 
corn,  was  far  better  than  could  have 
been  expected  by  the  most  sanguine. 
The  unfortunate  ones,  who  lost  nearly 
all  their  crops,  said  that  Ragaud  had 
dealt  in  witchcraft  to  protect  himself 
from  the  prevailing  bad  luck.  This 
nonsense  made  every  one  laugh,  but 
did  not  stop  their  envy  and  jealousy ; 
and  so  unjust  do  men  become,  when 
their  hearts  are  envenomed  by  rage 
and  disappointment,  that  some  of  the 
worst  —  the  laziest,  undoubtedly  — 
went  so  far  as  to  declare  openly,  in 
the  village  inn,  that  it  would  be  for 
the  good  of  the  public  if  some  of  the 
splendid  hay-stacks  at  Muiceron  were 
burned,  as  the  contrast  was  too  great 
between  the  well-kept  farm  and  the 
ruined  fields  around. 

Fortunately,  our  friend,  Jacques 
Michou,  was  drinking  in  a  corner 
while  this  delightful  conversation 
took  place ;  he  rose  from  his  seat, 
and,  placing  his  hand  on  the  shoulder 
of  him  who  had  been  the  loudest  in 
threats,  declared  he  would  instantly 
complain  of  him  to  the  police ;  and 
that,  merely  for  speaking  in  such  a 
manner,  he  could  be  sent  to  prison 
for  a  month.  No  further  grumbling 
was  heard  after  this  speech,  and  it 
can  be  easily  understood  no  wicked 


attempt  was  made.  So  true  is  it 
that  a  little  courage  will  easily  defeat 
the  most  wicked  plans;  for  vice  is 
very  cowardly  in  its  nature. 

While  all  the  country  around  Val- 
Saint,  Ordonniers,  and  many  other 
neighborhoods,  were  thus  afflicted, 
M.  le  Marquis  had  been  busy  with 
some  of  his  grand  affairs,  of  which 
we  have  already  heard,  and  started 
on  a  journey  for  some  unknown 
place.  He  returned  this  time  a  little 
happier  than  usual,  as  it  was  near  the 
beginning  of  1847 ;  and  it  is  not  ne- 
cessary to  remind  you  that  it  preced- 
ed 1848.  At  this  time  even  the  stu- 
pidest felt  that  a  revolution  was  ap- 
proaching, and  our  good  lord  and  all 
his  friends  were  doubly  certain  of 
the  impending  storm.  He  was  there- 
fore excusable  in  having  neglected 
the  care  of  his  large  estate,  so  as 
to  devote  himself  to  that  which  was 
the  first  desire  of  his  heart.  But  he 
who  should  have  watched  over  hit 
interests  in  his  absence,  the  superin- 
tendent Riponin,  he  it  was  that  was 
every  way  blamable ;  for,  whether  in- 
tentionally, that  he  might  continue 
his  orgies  in  the  midst  of  disorder,  or 
through  idleness  and  negligence,  he 
had  allowed  the  place  to  fall  into  a 
fearful  state  of  ruin.  Nothing  was 
to  be  seen  but  fields  devastated  by 
the  ruin,  or  grain  rotting  as  it  stood , 
the  animals  that  died  had  not  been 
replaced ;  and  even  the  vegetable 
garden  of  the  chateau  presented  a 
most  lamentable  picture  of  disorder 
'and  neglect.  Ragaud  and  Michou 
had  seen  all  this  ;  but  they  were  too 
insignificant  to  dare  say  a 'word,  and 
too  proud,  besides,  to  venture  a  re- 
monstrance, which  certainly  would 
not  have  been  received. 

M.  le  Marquis,  on  his  return,  was 
anything  but  agreeably  surprised. 
He  summoned  Riponin  before  him, 
and  reprimanded  him  in  a  manner 
which  he  long  remembered.  OUT 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


55 


master  was  goodness  itself,  but  he 
could  not  be  unreasonably  imposed 
upon ;  his  old  noble  blood  would 
fire  up,  and  he  could  show  men  that 
for  more  than  five  hundred  years  his 
ancestors,  as  well  as  he,  had  been 
accustomed  to  command  and  obey 
only  the  laws  of  the  Lord  God. 

Rip  on  in  was  a  coward ;  he  trem- 
bled and  asked  pardon,  promised  to 
do  better,  and  gave  a  hundred  poor 
excuses.  M.  le  Marquis  would  not 
receive  any  such  explanation ;  he  or- 
dered Riponin  out  of  his  presence, 
and  seasoned  the  command  with 
several  big  military  words,  which  I 
will  not  repeat.  It  was  a  sign  that 
he  was  terribly  angry.  Thus  the  un- 
faithful steward  was  obliged  to  re- 
tire without  further  reply ;  and,  be- 
tween ourselves,  it  was  the  best  he 
could  do. 

Thereupon  M.  le  Marquis,  still  in 
a  fury,  sent  off  for  Ragaud,  who 
came  in  great  haste,  easily  divining 
what  had  happened. 

"  Ragaud,"  said  the  master,  "  you 
are  no  better  than  the  rest.  I  will  lose 
forty  thousand  francs  on  my  crops; 
and  if  you  had  seen  to  it,  this  would 
not  have  happened." 

"  Forty  thousand  francs !"  quietly 
replied  Ragaud.  "  I  beg  your  pardon, 
M.  le  Marquis;  but  you  mean  sixty 
thousand  francs,  and  that,  I  think,  is 
the  lowest  calculation." 

M.  le  Marquis  was  naturally  cheer- 
ful ;  this  unexpected  answer  made 
him  smile,  instead  of  increasing  his 
anger.  He  looked  at  his  old  ser- 
vant, whom  he  highly  esteemed,  and, 
folding  his  arms,  said  : 

"  Is  that  your  opinion  ?  Come, 
now,  let  us  say  fifty  thousand  ;  I  think 
that  is  enough." 

"  No,  no,  sixty,"  replied  Ragaud. 
"  I  will  not  take  off  a  crown ;  but 
there  is  yet  time  to  save  half." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  What  can  I  give 
you,  if  you  do  that  much  ?" 


"  Nothing,  M.  le  Marquis,  but 
permission  to  be  master  here  for  a 
week,  and  the  honor  of  serving  you." 

"  Old  fool !"  said  the  marquis. 
"And  your  own  work,  what  will  be 
come  of  it?" 

"  It  is  all  finished,"  replied  the 
good  farmer;  "don't  be  uneasy,  my 
dear  master,  only  give  me,  as  I  said 
before,  full  power." 

"  Be  off,  then.  I  know  your  devo- 
tion, and  I  have  full  confidence  in 
you ;  but  you  will  not  object  to  my 
making  a  present  to  your  children  ?" 

"  Presents  !"  said  Ragaud,  much 
moved.  ".  What  else  have  you  done 
for  the  past  twenty  years,  M.  le 
Marquis  ?  Is  it  not  the  least  you  can 
do  to  let  me  be  of  some  use  to  you 
for  once  in  my  life  ?  I  owe  every- 
thing to  you,  down  to  the  roof  that 
shelters  me,  my  wife,  and  the  chil- 
dren. Presents !  No,  no,  if  you  do 
not  wish  to  pain  me." 

"  Proud  and  obstinate  man  that 
you  are,"  said  the  marquis,  smiling, 
"  have  everything  your  own  way.  I 
am  not  so  proud  as  you ;  you  offer  to 
save  me  thirty  thousand  francs,  and 
I  don't  make  such  a  fuss  about  ac- 
cepting it.  Isn't  that  a  present  ?" 

"  It  is  thirty  thousand  francs  that 
I  will  prevent  you  from  losing,"  said 
the  obstinate  Ragaud. 

"  Yes,  as  though  one  would  say 
grape-juice  was  not  the  juice  of  the 
grape,"  replied  the  marquis,  who  was 
highly  amused  at  the  replies  of  his 
old  servant.  "  Well,  if  I  ask  you  to 
drink  a  glass  of  old  Bordeaux  with 
me,  will  you  take  that  as  the  offer  of 
a  present  you  must  refuse  ?" 

"  Certainly    not,"    said     Ragaud, 
"  but  it  is  too  great  an  honor  for  m 
to  drink  with  my  lord." 

M.  le  Marquis  made  them  bring 
refreshments  on  a  silver  waiter,  and 
kept  Ragaud  in  close  conversation 
for  a  full  hour,  knowing  well  that 
this  friendly  manner  of  treating  him 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


was  the  greatest  reward  he  could 
give  the  good,  honest  soul,  to  whom 
God  had  given  sentiments  far  above 
his  condition.  Afterwards,  he  dis- 
missed him  with  such  a  warm  shake 
of  the  hand  that  Ragaud  was  nearly 
overcome  and  could  scarcely  restrain 
his  tears. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  returning  to  Mui- 
ceron, where  he  found  Jean-Louis 
occupied  with  arranging  the  wood- 
pile, "  what  do  you  think  we  are 
going  to  do,  my  boy,  after  having 
worked  like  ten  men  to  get  in  our 
crops  and  fill  the  barns  ?" 

"  I  was  thinking  about  that,"  re- 
plied Jeannet;  "and,  meanwhile,  I 
have  put  the  fagots  in  order,  so  that 
mother  can  easily  get  at  them,  when 
I  am  not  at  hand,  to  make  the  fire." 

"  You  have  never  thought  to  take 
a  little  rest  ?"  asked  Ragaud,  who 
knew  well  beforehand  what  would 
be  the  reply. 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Jean-Louis,  "  an 
hour's  rest  now  and  then  is  very 
pleasant ;  but  after  that,  my  dear  fa- 
ther," he  continued,  laughing,  "  I 
like  to  stretch  my  legs." 

"Well,  then,  let  us  imagine  no- 
thing was  done  at  Muiceron,  and 
that,  at  this  very  moment,  we  should 
be  obliged  to  begin ;  what  would  you 
say  ?" 

"  All  right;  and  I  would  instantly 
begin  the  work.  I  hope  you  don't 
doubt  me?"  he  replied,  with  his 
usual  air  of  quiet  resolution. 

"  No,  I  do  not  doubt  you,  my 
good  boy,"  resumed  Ragaud ;  "  and 
to  prove  my  confidence  in  your 
courage  and  good-will,  I  have  to-day 
promised  to  undertake  an  enterprise 
which,  in  honor,  we  are  bound  to 
accomplish." 

And  he  related  to  him  what  we 
already  know. 

"  Hum !"  said  Jean-Louis,  after 
having  listened  attentively;  "it  will 
be  pretty  hard  work,  but  with  the 


help  of  God  nothing  is  impossi- 
ble." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  think,"  re- 
plied Ragaud ;  "  but  for  that,  I  would 
not  have  undertaken  such  a  task. 
Now,  Jeannet,  we  must  begin  to  put 
the  place  in  order  to-morrow  at  the 
latest." 

"  That  will  be  time  enough,  father, 
and  we  will  do  our  best,"  said  Jean- 
Louis. 

The  subject  was  dropped  for  the 
rest  of  the  evening.  Ragaud  did  not 
trouble  his  head  about  the  means  his 
son  would  employ ;  and  Jeannet,  with- 
out being  otherwise  sure  of  himself,  re- 
mained tranquil,  like  all  those  who 
ask  the  assistance  of  divine  Provi- 
dence in  the  management  of  their  af- 
fairs. Nevertheless,  it  was  a  diffi- 
cult task,  not  only  on  account  of  the 
severe  manual  labor,  but  also  from 
the  certainty  of  incurring  the  deadly 
hatred  of  Riponin,  who  was  a  very 
wicked  man.  The  thought  of  it 
somewhat  disquieted  Ragaud,  and 
Jean-Louis  from  the  first  understood 
the  full  danger;  but  what  could  be 
done  ?  Duty  before  everything. 

The  next  morning  Jean-Louis 
was  up  before  sunrise.  During  the 
night,  he  thought  over  his  plan,  like 
the  general  of  an  army ;  he  remem- 
bered having  read  somewhere  that 
a  troop  can  do  nothing,  unless  con- 
ducted by  able  chiefs.  He  would 
need  one  hundred  hands,  and,  for 
one  all  alone,  that  would  be  a  great 
many.  His  first  care  was  to  knock 
at  the  window  of  a  fine  young  man 
of  his  own  age,  who,  from  infancy, 
had  been  his  most  intimate  friend. 
He  was  called  Pierre  Luguet,  and 
lived  in  the  hamlet  of  Luchonieres, 
which  is  a  small  cluster  of  twelve  or 
fifteen  houses  a  little  lower  down 
than  Ordonniers,  but  on  the  other 
side  of  La  Range.  By  good  fortune, 
the  stream  at  this  place  is  so  choked 
up  with  a  big  heap  of  gravel  and  old 


The  Farm  of  M nicer  on. 


57 


Btumps  of  willow-trees,  which  serve 
as  stepping-stones  across  the  water, 
that  any  one  who  is  light-footed  can 
cross  as  easily  as  on  a  narrow  bridge. 

This  name  of  Luguet,  I  suppose, 
strikes  your  ear  oddly.  He  was 
really  tne  nephew  of  poor  Catha- 
rine, and  thus  first  cousin  of  Jean- 
Louis,  who  undoubtedly  knew  it,  as 
you  can  imagine.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  reason  these  two  young  men 
were  so  much  attached.  They  say 
the  voice  of  blood  cannot  be  smoth- 
ered ;  and  although  it  is  not  always 
true,  in  this  case  it  was  very  evident 
that,  whether  for  that  reason  or  sim- 
ply from  similarity  of  character  and 
pursuits,  good  conduct  and  age, 
Pierre  Luguet  was  the  only  one  of 
the  neighborhood  whom  Jeannet 
ever  sought,  and  that  Pierre  was 
never  happier  than  when  he  could 
detain  Jean-Louis  for  several  hours 
in  conversation  or  some  innocent 
amusement. 

Jean-Louis  went  straight  to  the 
house  of  his  friend,  who,  recognizing 
his  voice  behind  the  shutter,  quickly 
opened  it  and  let  him  in.  He  liv- 
ed in  a  little  room  in  front  of  the 
farm- buildings,  and,  consequently,  the 
noise  did  not  awaken  his  parents. 
Jeannet  entered  by  the  window,  and, 
without  losing  any  time,  explained 
his  plans  to  Pierre,  while  he  rapidly 
dressed. 

"  You,"  said  he,  "  must  be  my 'lieu- 
tenant. We  must  get  together  one 
hundred  young  men,  each  one  re- 
solved to  do  his  part.  M.  le  Mar- 
quis will  not  begrudge  the  crowns; 
we  will  promise  them  good  wages, 
and  they  must  work  all  night,  if  neces- 
sary; and,  to  encourage  every  one, 
we  will  keep  a  roaring  fire  in  Michou's 
house,  so  that  Barbette  will  always 
have  the  soup  warm  and  a  tun  of 
cider  ready  for  tapping.  In  this  man- 
ner the  laborers  will  be  contented,  and 
not  obliged  to  return  home  twice  a-day 


for  their  meals.  As  for  you,  Pierre, 
be  assured  that  M.  le  Marquis  will 
reward  you  most  generously  for  your 
work ;  and,  besides,  you  will  be  doing 
a  good  action,  for  it  is  a  great  sin  to 
see  the  estate  of  the  master  worse 
cared  for  than  that  of  his  servants." 

"  I  am  not  thinking  about  the 
price,"  said  Pierre  Luguet,  putting 
on  his  blouse.  "  I  ask  no  more  than 
you  will  have." 

"  That  is  good;  we  will  see  about 
it,"  replied  Jeannet,  laughing  in  his 
sleeve ;  for  he  knew  well  that  he  was 
going  to  work  for  the  honor  of  it,  and 
he  did  not  wish  to  make  Pierre  go 
by  the  same  rule,  knowing  that  he 
supported  his  old  parents. 

They  decided  upon  the  places 
where  they  would  expect  to  find  the 
best  men,  and  separated,  one  to  the 
left,  the  other  to  the  right,  promis- 
ing to  meet  again  at  twelve  o'clock. 

There  was  really  great  rejoicing 
when  the  young  men  of  Val-Saint 
and  Ordonniers  learned  that  they 
were  required  to  work  for  M.  le  Mar- 
quis under  the  lead  of  the  two  best 
men  of  the  neighborhood.  They  had 
nothing  to  fear  from  brutality  and 
injustice,  as  in  the  time  of  Riponin ; 
and  the  news  of  his  disgrace  put  all 
the  brave  fellows  in  the  best  humor. 

Riponin  was  cordially  detested,  and 
for  double  the  pay  not  one  would 
have  volunteered  to  serve  under  him, 
or  have  undertaken  such  a  disagreea- 
ble and  bungled  affair ;  but  with  Jean- 
net  it  was  another  thing,  and  although 
he  warned  them  beforehand  that 
he  would  allow  neither  idleness  nor 
bad  language,  and  that  they  must 
work  long  and  steadily,  they  follow- 
ed him,  singing  as  joyously  as  though 
they  were  going  to  a  wedding. 

Before  noon,  the  two  bands  met 
on  the  edge  of  the  wood,  where 
dwelt  our  old  friend,  the  game-keep- 
er. Pierre  Luguet,  after  leaving 
home,  had  taken  care  to  pass  by,  so 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


as  to  forewarn  him.  Jacques  Mi- 
chou  threw  up  his  cap  at  the  news  \  he 
also  despised  Riponin,  and,  more  than 
any  other,  he  had  good  reason  for 
hating  him.  He  therefore  laid  his 
plans,  and  borrowed  from  the  cha- 
teau a  huge  kettle,  such  as  is  used 
during  the  vintage  for  pressing  the 
grapes,  which  he  put  up,  for  their 
service,  in  his  little  barn.  Every- 
thing was  ready  at  the  appointed 
hour,  and  I  can  assure  you  the  de- 
lightful surprise  was  fully  appreciated 
by  our  young  friends.  The  two  lead- 
ers had  taken  the  precaution  to  tell 
each  one  of  the  boys  to  bring  half  a 
loaf  of  bread,  a  piece  of  goat's  cheese, 
and  a  slice  of  pork;  so  the  soup  was 
doubly  welcome,  as  it  was  not  ex- 
pected, and  the  cider  still  more  so, 
as  they  had  counted  only  on  the  river- 
water.  This  good  beginning  put 
them  in  splendid  humor ;  and  when, 
after  being  fully  refreshed,  they 
marched  up  to  the  chateau  to  pay 
their  respects  to  M.  le  Marquis  be- 
fore beginning  their  work,  one  would 
have  said,  from  the  noise  and  sing- 
ing, that  it  was  a  band  of  conscripts 
who  had  drawn  the  lucky  number. 

They  instantly  put  their  shoulders 
to  the  plough.  Jeannet  wisely  made 
them  commence  with  the  worst  fields, 
so  that,  when  the  first  excitement 
was  over,  and  they  would  be  rather 
fatigued,  they  could  find  that  they 
had  not  eaten  the  white  bread  first. 
Thus,  having  been  well  selected,  well 
fed,  well  paid,  and,  above  all,  well 
led,  our  boys  did  wonders,  not  only 
that  afternoon,  but  on  the  following 
days.  The  weather,  however,  was 
decidedly  against  them;  rain  drench- 
ed the  laborers,  and  strong  winds 
prevented  them  from  building  up  the 
hay-stacks ;  but  their  ardor  was  so 
great  that  nothing  discouraged  them ; 
and  often,  when  Jeannet,  moved  by 
sympathy,  put  it  to  vote  whether 
they  should  continue  or  not,  he  saw 


with  pleasure  that  not  one  man  de- 
serted his  post. 

At  the  end  of  a  week,  half  the 
work  was  so  well  under  way  it  could 
easily  be  seen  that,  in  spite  of  the 
bad  season  and  worse  management, 
M.  le  Marquis  would  not  lose  all  his 
crops  this  time,  but  that,  on  the  con- 
trary, his  barns  would  make  a  very 
good  show,  if  not  in  quality,  at  least 
in  quantity.  The  worthy  gentleman 
came  several  times  himself  to  visit 
the  laborers  and  distribute  extra  pay. 
On  these  occasions  it  was  admirable 
to  see  the  modesty  of  Jean-Louis, 
who  always  managed  to  disappear, 
leaving  to  Pierre  Luguet  the  honor 
of  showing  the  progress  of  the  work 
to  M.  le  Marquis;  and  as  workmen 
are  generally  just  when  they  are  hot 
found  fault  with,  brow-beaten,  or  ill- 
treated,  they  rendered  to  Jean-Louis 
greater  honor  and  respect  the  more 
he  concealed  himself  from  their  ap- 
plause. In  short,  everything  went 
on  well  to  the  end  without  inter- 
ruption. 

The  given  fortnight  was  not  over 
when  the  last  cart-load,  ornamented 
on  top  with  a  huge  bouquet  of  flow- 
ers and  sheaves  of  wheat  tied  with 
ribbons,  was  conducted  in  triumph, 
accompanied  with  songs  of  joy,  under 
the  windows  of  mademoiselle,  who 
appeared  on  the  balcony,  with  Jean- 
nette  Ragaud  on  her  right  and  Dame 
Berthe  on  the  left.  M.  le  Marquis 
was  in  the  court  of  honor,  enchanted 
with  the  success  of  the  measure ;  and 
Ragaud  and  Michou  could  not  re- 
main quiet,  but  clapped  their  hands, 
and  cried  "  Bravo  !"  to  the  brave 
young  men. 

Jean-Louis  tried  to  escape  this 
time  also,  but  was  not  allowed.  His 
friends  raised  him  in  their  arms,  and 
placed  him  on  top  of  the  cart  with 
his  good  comrade,  Pierre  Luguet ; 
and  thus  they  made  their  appear- 
ance, both  standing  alongside  of  the 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


59 


bouquet,  Jeannet  crimson  with  shame 
and  vexation,  whilst  Pierre  sang  loud 
enough  to  crack  his  throat. 

You  can  imagine  that  this  cart, 
upon  which  had  been  heaped  the 
last  gleanings  of  the  harvest,  was 
piled  up  immensely  high,  so  that  the 
top  was  on  a  level  with  the  first  floor 
of  the  chateau,  and  mademoiselle 
could  thus  converse  at  her  ease  with 
the  young  men. 

She  spoke  most  graciously  to  Jean- 
Louis,  and  congratulated  him  with 
words  so  complimentary  that  the 
poor  fellow  wished  himself  under  the 
grain,  rather  than  on  top.  What 
embarrassed  him  still  further  was  to 
see  his  sister  Jeannette  playing  the 
part  of  great  lady  as  much  as  her 
mistress.  With  his  usual  good  sense, 
he  considered  it  out  of  place,  and 
would  have  been  much  better  pleased 
if  she  had  appeared  ill  at  ease  in  her 
false  position  ;  but,  far  from  that,  she 
leaned  over  the  balcony,  laughing  and 
talking  like  a  vain  little  parrot,  and 
even  rallied  Jean-Louis  on  his  sub- 
dued manner. 

He  did  not  wish  to  spoil  the  affair 
by  looking  severe  and  discontented, 
but  he  was  grieved  at  heart,  and 
hastened  to  put  an  end  to  the  scene. 

Mademoiselle,  at  the  close  of  her 
complimentary  remarks,  presented 
each  of  the  two  friends  with  a  little 
box  of  the  same  size,  wrapped  in 
beautiful  paper,  and  tied  with  pink 
ribbon. 

"  They  are  filled  with  bon-bons," 
said  she  in  her  sweet,  gentle  voice ; 
"  and  you  will  not  refuse  to  eat  them 
in  remembrance  of  me  ?" 

Then  she  made  them  a  most 
friendly  bow,  which  they  returned 
,vith  great  respect,  and  the  big  cart 
was  driven  off  to  the  barn  to  be  un- 
loaded. 

"  Bon-bons  !"  said  Pierre  to  Jean- 
net,  taking  out  his  box  after  they 
h^d  descended  from  their  high  post 


of  honor.  "  What  do  you  think,  Jean- 
Louis  ?  It  seems  to  me  this  play- 
thing is  too  heavy  only  to  contain 
candies." 

"  At  any  rate,"  replied  Jean-Louis, 
"  they  can't  do  us  any  harm,  as  the 
boxes  are  not  very  large." 

They  quickly  untied  the  pretty 
pink  ribbon,  and  found  in  Pierre's 
box  fifteen  bright  twenty-franc 
pieces,  while  Jeannet's  contained  a 
beautiful  gold  watch,  with  a  chain 
of  equal  value. 

To  add  to  the  general  happiness,  the 
sky,  which  until  then  had  been  cloudy 
as  though  threatening  rain,  suddenly 
cleared,  and  the  sun  went  down  in 
the  full  splendor  of  August,  and  shed 
a  brilliant  light  over  the  bare  fields, 
as  Jean-Louis  was  carried  in  triumph 
by  his  comrades,  who  cried  out  that 
surely  he  controlled  the  weather,  as 
the  very  winds  seemed  to  obey  him ; 
and,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  the  sea- 
son continued  so  fine  that  never  wa* 
there  a  more  delightful  autumn  than 
after  the  unfortunate  spring  and  sum 
mer. 

If  I  dared  express  my  opinion,  I 
would  tell  you  that,  without  calling  il 
miraculous,  the  good  God  scarcely 
ever  fails  to  send  joy  after  sorrow, 
peace  after  war,  heat  after  cold,  as 
much  to  the  visible  things  of  the 
earth  as  to  the  secret  ones  of  the 
heart.  It  is,  therefore,  well  not  to 
throw  the  handle  too  quickly  after 
the  axe  ;  and,  to  prove  this,  I  will  tell 
you  a  short  and  true  story,  which  I 
just  happen  to  remember. 

It  relates  to  Michel  Levrot,  of 
the  commune  of  Saint-Ouaire,  who, 
against  everybody's  advice,  married 
a  woman  from  near  Bicherieux. 
She  was  a  bad  "Christian  and  totally 
unworthy  of  the  good  little  man,  who 
was  rather  too  gentle  and  weak  in 
character.  For  a  year  they  got  along 
so-so,  without  any  great  disturbance ; 
but  gradually  the  wicked  creature 


6o 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


grew  to  despise  her  poor  husband, 
for  no  other  reason  but  that  he  was 
too  good  for  her,  and  let  her  have 
her  own  way  completely.  She  wast- 
ed money  at  fairs,  bought  more  fine 
clothes  and  silver  jewelry  than  she 
knew  what  to  do  with,  kept  up  a.  row 
in  the  house  from  morning  until  night, 
and  ended  by  being  nearly  always 
drunk;  all  which  made  Michel 
Levrot  so  unhappy  that  one  sad  day 
in  a  moment  of  despair,  without 
stopping  to  think  of  his  eternal  salva- 
tion, he  threw  himself  headlong  into 
the  river  Coussiau,  which,  fortunately, 
was  not  so  deep  as  La  Range,  al- 
though nearly  as  wide. 

As  he  was  out  of  his  head,  and 
acted  without  thinking,  his  good 
angel  most  assuredly  took  care  of 
him ;  for,  if  he  had  been  drowned,  he 
certainly  would  have  lost  his  soul; 
but,  although  he  did  not  know  how 
to  swim,  he  floated  on  his  back,  and 
the  current  carried  him  to  the  bank 
of  the  stream,  where  he  was  picked 
up,  half-dead  and  in  a  swoon,  by 
some  of  the  neighbors,  who  rubbed 
and  warmed  him,  and  managed  to 
bring  him  back  to  life.  Those  who 
had  saved  him  were  good,  pious  men, 
who  spoke  to  him  in  such  a  Chris- 
tian manner,  they  made  him  feel 
ashamed  of  his  cowardice  and  want 
of  confidence  in  the  Heavenly  Father; 
so  he  promised  to  go  and  see  our 
cur/,  who  lifted  him  upon  his  beast — 
that  is  to  say,  made  peace  enter  his 
soul;  after  which  he  explained  to 
him  that,  having  no  children,  he  had 
the  right  to  leave  this  wicked  and 
perverse  woman,  who  deserved  a 


severe  lesson,  and  not  return  home 
until  she  should  be  converted  or 
dead. 

He  left  that  part  of  the  country, 
entirely  cured  of  his  desire  to  kill 
himself,  and  made  the  tour  of  France, 
honestly  earning  his  bread  by  work- 
ing at  his  trade,  which  was  that  of 
an  upholsterer.  From  time  to  time 
the  neighbors  sent  him  news  of  his 
abominable  wife,  who  led  such  a 
scandalous  life  it  was  easy  to  pre- 
dict she  would  not  make  old  bones ; 
for,  if  strong  drink  and  vice  soon 
kill  the  most  robust  men,  they  are 
still  more  fatal  to  women.  After 
a  few  years,  he  received  the  welcome 
intelligence  that  his  house  was  rid 
of  its  baneful  mistress.  He  then  re- 
turned to  Saint-Ouaire,  and  was  char- 
itable enough  to  give  fifty  francs  for 
Masses  for  the  unfortunate  soul. 
Some  time  after,  he  married  the 
daughter  of  Pierre  Rufin,  a  good 
worker  and  housekeeper,  who,  besides 
other  excellent  qualities,  never  drank 
anything  stronger  than  honey  and 
water  that  she  took  for  a  weak  sto 
mach,  which  she  had  from  child 
hood.  They  lived  most  happily,  and 
had  a  family  of  five  handsome  chil- 
dren. I  knew  him  when  he  was  very 
old,  and 'he  always  loved  to  relate 
this  story  of  his  youth,  never  failing 
to  return  thanks  to  the  good  God,  who 
had  saved  him  from  drowning. 

"  For,"  said  he,  "  my  dear  children, 
if  I  had  been  drowned  that  day  from 
want  of  a  little  patience,  I  should 
have  lost  my  soul,  besides  the  good 
wife  you  see  here  and  all  my  present 
happiness." 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


6t 


XII. 

THE  Sunday  after  the  last  day  of 
the  harvest,  M.  le  Marquis  invited  all 
the  boys  up  to  the  chateau,  where  a 
magnificent  banquet  was  prepared, 
and  they  were  expected  to  remain 
until  the  evening.  He  ordered  a 
splendid  repast,  and  music  besides; 
the  principal  barn,  which  ordinarily 
was  crammed  full  at  this  season,  but 
that,  owing  to  the  bad  season,  was 
comparatively  empty,  was  decorated 
for  the  occasion.  Our  master  desired 
that  nothing  should  be  spared  to 
make  the  fete  a  great  success.  All 
the  fine  linen  of  the  chateau — and 
the  closets  were  heaping-full  of  it — 
the  china,  and  silver  were  put  into 
requisition,  so  that  there  never  was 
given  a  more  superb  banquet  to 
great  personages  than  to  our  delight- 
ed villagers.  As  for  the  fricassee,  it 
is  remembered  to  this  day;  it  was 
composed,  to  commence  with,  of  a 
dozen  kinds  of  poultry,  so  well  dis- 
guised under  different  sauces  that 
one  ate  chicken  in  confidence  as 
chicken,  because  it  was  so  written  on 
little  strips  of  paper  laid  beside  each 
plate,  but  without  being  positive  that 
it  was  not  turkey  or  pigeon ;  and 
every  one  agreed  in  acknowledging 
that  such  a  delicious  compound  had 
never  passed  down  country  throats, 
and  that  the  wines,  if  possible,  sur- 
passed the  eating ;  so  that  the  good 
fellows  commenced  to  be  merry  and 
perfectly  happy  when  the  roast  ap- 
peared. 

Of  this  roast  I  will  say  a  word  be- 
fore passing  to  other  things,  for  I 


fancy  you  have  seldom  seen  it  equal- 
led. With  all  respect,  imagine  a  huge 
hog,  weighing  at  least  a  hundred 
pounds,  roasted  whole,  beautifully 
gilded,  and  trimmed  with  ribbons,  and 
reposing  so  quietly  on  a  plank  cover- 
ed with  water-cresses  you  would 
have  thought  him  asleep. 

It  was  really  a  curious  and  most 
appetizing  sight,  and  sufficiently  rare 
to  be  remarked ;  but  see  how  stupid 
some  people  are !  On  seeing  this 
superb  dish,  whose  delicious  perfume 
would  have  brought  the  dead  back 
to  life — that  is  to  say,  if  they  were 
hungry — some  of  the  fellows  said 
that  M.  le  Marquis  might  have  better 
chosen  another  roast,  as  pork  was 
something  they  ate  all  through  the 
year.  Whereupon  Master  Ruinard, 
the  head-cook  of  the  chateau,  made 
a  good-natured  grimace,  and  apostro- 
phized them  as  a  heap  of  fools,  but 
without  any  other  sign  of  displeasure  ; 
and  then  seizing  his  big  knife,  that 
he  sharpened  with  a  knowing  air,  he 
cut  the  animal  open,  and  out  tumbled 
snipe,  woodcock,  rennets,  and  par- 
tridges, done  to  a  turn,  and  of  which 
each  one  had  his  good  share.  As 
for  the  hog,  no  one  touched  it,  which 
proved  two  things — first,  that  you 
must  not  speak  too  soon;  secondly, 
that  when  a  great  lord  gives  an  enter- 
tainment, it  is  always  sure  to  be  re- 
markably fine. 

At  the  dessert,  which  was  abun- 
dant in  pastry,  ice-cream,  and  fresh 
and  dried  fruits,  they  served  a  deli- 
cate wine,  the  color  of  old  straw, 
the  name  of  which  I  don't  know  ex- 
actly, but  which  was  sweet  and  not 


62 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


at  all  disagreeable.  At  this  time,  M. 
le  Marquis,  accompanied  by  made- 
moiselle, Dame  Berthe,  and  Jeannette, 
entered  and  mingled  with  the  guests, 
who  rose  and  bowed  low.  Our  good 
master  thanked  the  young  men  for 
the  great  service  they  had  rendered 
him  ;  and  as  he  could  not  drink  with 
each  one,  he  touched  his  glass  to 
that  of  Jean-Louis,  saying  it  was  to 
the  health  of  all  the  commune.  They 
cried,  "  Long  live  M.  le  Marquis  !" 
until  the  roof  shook ;  and  as  their 
heads  were  as  heated  as  the  boilers 
at  the  big  yearly  wash,  they  whisper- 
ed among  themselves  that  it  would 
be  well  to  carry  Jean-Louis  again  in 
triumph,  as  much  to  please  the  mas- 
ter as  to  render  justice  to  him  who 
was  the  cause  of  all  this  festivity. 

Now,  our  Jean-Louis  was  the  only 
one  who  remained  composed  after 
all  this  eating  and  drinking.  He 
had  eaten  with  good  appetite,  and 
fully  quenched  his  thirst,  but  not  one 
mouthful  more  than  was  necessary. 
He  heard  all  that  was  said  without 
appearing  to  listen  ;  and  when  others 
might  have  felt  vain,  he  was  displeas- 
ed; he  therefore  watched  his  chance, 
slid  under  the  table,  and,  working  his 
way  like  an  eel  between  the  legs  of 
his  comrades,  who  were  too  busily 
occupied  to  notice  him,  in  three 
seconds  was  out  of  the  door,  running 
for  dear  life,  for  fear  of  being  caught. 

He  was  delighted  to  breathe  the 
fresh  air,  and  did  not  slacken  his 
pace  until  he  had  gone  a  good  quarter 
of  a  league,  and  was  near  Muiceron. 
Then  he  stopped  to  take  breath, 
laughing  aloud  at  the  good  trick  he 
had  played. 

"Thank  goodness!"  thought  he, 
"  I  have  at  last  escaped.  They  can 
run  as  fast  as  they  choose  now ;  there 
is  no  chance  of  catching  up  with  me. 
What  would  M.  le  Marquis  and  the 
family  have  thought  to  have  seen 
me  hoisted  up  on  the  shoulders  of 


those  half-tipsy  fellows,  and  paraded 
around  the  court,  like  a  learned  beast 
on  a  fair-ground  ?  Not  knowing  that 
I  had  come  to  the  chateau  only  to 
oblige  the  master,  who  had  besides 
given  me  a  valuable  watch,  it  would 
have  looked  as  though  I  wished  to 
receive  in  vain  applause  what  I  re- 
fused in  money.  None  of  that,  none 
of  that  for  me ;  there  is  enough  non- 
sense going  on,  without  my  mixing 
myself  up  in  it.  They  can  drink  and 
dance  until  sunrise  to-morrow,  if  they 
so  please,  it  is  all  the  same  to  me; 
and  I  will  go  home  to  bed,  after  hav- 
ing told  all  to  my  dear  mother,  who 
will  not  fail  to  approve  of  my  conduct, 
and  laugh  heartily  at  my  escape." 

As  he  said  this  to  himself,  he  enter- 
ed the  wood,  of  which  we  have  al- 
ready spoken,  that  skirts  La  Range 
and  throws  its  shade  nearly  to  the 
fir-trees  which  surround  Muiceron. 
It  was  such  a  delightful  spot,  either 
by  night  or  day,  that  it  was  difficult 
to  pass  through  it  without  feeling  a 
disposition  to  loiter  and  meditate, 
particularly  for  such  a  dreamer  as 
Jean-Louis.  After  all,  now  that  he 
was  safe,  there  was  nothing  to  hurry 
him  home  for  at  least  half  an  hour. 
He  therefore  put  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  strolled  along,  resting 
both  mind  and  body  in  a  dreamy 
reverie  for  the  benefit  of  the  one,  and 
walking  slowly  to  the  great  good  of 
the  other. 

Really,  the  evening  was  delicious. 
The  great  heat  of  the  day  had  been 
succeeded  by  a  fresh  breeze,  which, 
passing  over  the  orchards  around, 
brought  into  the  wood  the  sweet 
odor  of  young  fruit,  mingled  with 
that  of  the  foliage  and  bark  of  the 
trees,  damp  with  the  August  sap. 
The  hum  of  insects  was  heard,  and 
not  far  off  the  joyous  murmur  of  the 
stream  leaping  over  the  stones.  As 
the  ground  had  been  thoroughly 
soaked  for  several  weeks  past,  quan* 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


tides  of  wild  flowers  strewed  the  soil, 
and  added  to  the  balmy  air  a  taste 
of  spring,  entirely  out  of  season. 
You  surely  must  have  felt,  at  some 
time  or  other,  how  such  nights  and 
such  scenes  enervate  the  brain.  The 
will  cannot  resist  the  bewitching  in- 
fluence ;  insensibly  we  become  dream- 
ers, and  feel  a  strong  desire  to 
converse  with  the  stars.  August 
nights  especially  are  irresistible,  and 
I  imagine  no  one,  unless  somebody 
depraved  by  wicked  deeds  and 
thoughts,  or  a  born  idiot,  can  fail 
to  understand  and  acknowledge  the 
effect. 

Judge  if  our  Jean-Louis,  with  his 
pure  soul  and  young  heart  of  twenty 
years,  was  happy  in  the  midst  of 
these  gifts  of  the  good  God.  He 
was  like  a  child  who  hears  for  the 
first  time  the  sound  of  the  bagpipes ; 
and  I  beg  you  will  not  sneer  at  this 
comparison,  for  the  reveries  of  an  in- 
nocent heart  have  precisely  the  same 
gentle  effect  on  the  soul  as  the  grand 
harmonies  that  roll  through  vast 
cathedrals  on  the  great  festivals  of 
the  church. 

Doubtless,  that  he  might  better 
listen  to  this  music,  he  seated  him- 
self on  the  moss  at  the  bottom  of  a 
birch-tree,  rested  his  head  against 
the  trunk,  and  looked  up  at  the 
leaves,  shaken  by  the  wind,  his  feet 
crossed,  and  in  the  most  comfortable 
position  possible,  to  dream  at  his  ease. 
Now,  whether  he  was  more  fatigued 
than  he  imagined,  on  account  of  his 
week's  hard  labor,  or  whether  the 
unusual  feasting  at  the  chateau  made 
him  drowsy,  certain  it  is  that  he  first 
closed  one  eye,  then  both,  and  ended 
by  falling  as  soundly  asleep  as 
though  he  were  in  his  bed  at  Mui- 
ceron. 

It  happened  that,  during  this  time, 
a  storm  arose  behind  the  hill  of 
Chaumier,  to  the  right  of  the  river 
that  runs  through  the  parish  of  Val- 


Saint  and  Ordonniers  —  something 
which  our  sleeper  had  not  foreseen, 
although  he  was  very  expert  in 
judging  of  the  weather.  Ordinarily, 
the  river  cuts  the  thunder-clouds,  so 
that  this  side  of  La  Range  is  seldom 
injured  by  storms;  but  this  time  it 
was  not  so.  At  the  end  of  an  hour 
or  two  *that  his  sleep  lasted,  Jean- 
Louis  was  suddenly  awakened  by  a 
clap  of  thunder  which  nearly  deaf- 
ened him ;  and  in  an  instant  the  rain 
commenced  to  fall  in  great  drops 
that  came  down  on  his  face,  and  of 
which  he  received  the  full  benefit  as 
he  lay  stretched  out  on  the  grass. 

He  rose  at  a  bound,  and  started 
off  on  a  gallop,  that  his  best  clothes 
might  not  be  injured.  Muiceron 
was  not  far  distant,  and  the  storm 
had  just  commenced ;  he  therefore 
hoped  to  reach  the  house  in  time  to 
escape  it.  Not  that  he  thought  only 
of  his  costume,  like  a  vain,  effeminate 
boy,  but  because  his  mother  Pierrette 
was  very  careful,  and  did  not  like  to 
see  his  Sunday  suit  spoiled  or  spotted 
with  the  rain. 

But  the  storm  ran  faster  than  he ; 
the  rain  fell  as  from  a  great  watering- 
pot  on  the  trees,  lightning  glared  on 
all  sides  at  once,  and  one  would  have 
said  that  two  thunder-clouds  were 
warring  against  each  other,  trying 
to  see  which  could  show  the  greatest 
anger. 

In  the  midst  of  this  infernal  noise, 
Jean-Louis  suddenly  saw  what  he 
thought,  by  the  flash  of  lightning,  to 
be  a  little  brown  form  trotting  before 
him  in  the  middle  of  the  path.  He 
was  not  a  boy  to  be  alarmed  by 
the  raw-head-and-bloody-bones  stories 
with  which  we  frighten  children  to 
make  them  behave,  and  which  many 
grown-up  men,  with  beards  on  their 
chin,  half  believe  to  be  true;  but, 
nevertheless,  the  thing  appeared 
quite  unusual.  He  hastened  his 
steps,  and,  as  sometimes  he  could  see 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


in  the  lightning-glare  as  well  as  at 
noon-day,  he  soon  recognized  the 
costume  of  the  women  of  the,  coun- 
try, or  at  least  the  cloak  they  throw 
over  their  clothes  when  the  weather 
is  threatening. 

"  Oh  !"  said  the  kind-hearted  Jean- 
net,  "  here  is  a  poor  little  thing  half 
frightened  to  death  on  account  of 
the  storm.  I  must  catch  up  with  her, 
and  offer  to  take  her  to  the  village." 

For  Jean-Louis,  although  he  had 
very  little  ever  to  do  with  girls,  was 
so  kindly  disposed  he  was  always 
ready  to  be  of  service  to  his  neigh- 
bors, whether  they  wore  blouses  or 
petticoats. 

But  as  he  hurried  on,  that  he 
might  put  in  practice  his  charitable 
thought,  there  came  a  flash  of  light- 
ning that  seemed  to  set  the  woods 
on  fire,  and,  immediately  after,  a  ter- 
rible clap  of  thunder  as  loud  as 
though  the  heavens  were  rent  asun- 
der. Jeannet  involuntarily  closed 
his  eyes,  and  stopped  short,  fastened 
to  the  ground  like  a  stake.  It  was 
what  the  savants  call — an  electric 
shock.  But  don't  expect  me  to  ex- 
plain that  expression,  for  I  know 
nothing  about  it,  and,  besides,  I 
don't  worry  my  head  about  such 
things. 

When  our  boy  opened  his  eyes, 
after  one  or  two  seconds,  which  ap- 
peared to  him  very  long,  his  first 
care  was  to  explore  the  path,  in  order 
that  he  might  discover  the  unknown 
country-girl ;  but  there  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen  a  trace  of  a  girl,  a  cloak, 
or  anything  that  resembled  a  human 
being. 

"  Well,  this  is  at  least  singular," 
said  he  very  uneasily.  "  Has  my  sight 
grown  dim  ?  No  ;  I  would  stake  my 
head  that  I  saw  before  me  a  flesh- 
and-bone  woman.  I  saw  it — that  I 
am  positive  and  sure.  If  she  has 
been  hurt  by  this  stroke  of  lightning, 
which  must  surely  have  fallen  near 


here,  she  must  be  lying  on  the  ground ; 
for  I  have  never  heard  that  the  storm 
kills  people  by  making  them  melt 
like  snow  under  the  March  sun." 

This  sudden  disappearance  excit- 
ed him  to  such  a  degree  that,  with- 
out thinking  of  the  rain,  which  was 
pouring  down  in  torrents,  and  had 
drenched  his  new  coat  of  Vierzon 
cloth,  he  resolved  to  enter  the  copse, 
at  the  risk  of  losing  his  way,  and 
search  around  until  he  would  discov- 
er the  lost  girl.  But  before  leaving 
the  beaten  path,  by  a  sudden  in- 
spiration, he  cried  out  with  a  loud 
voice : 

"  If  there  is  any  one  here  who 
needs  assistance,  let  her  speak.  I 
will  bring  two  strong  arms  to  the 
rescue." 

Instantly  a  faint  voice,  stifled  and 
weeping,  replied,  "  Oh !  for  S.  Syl- 
vain's  sake,  good  people,  have  mercy 
on  me !" 

"  Holy  Virgin  Mary  !"  cried  Jean- 
Louis,  "  is  not  that  the  voice  of  my 
sister  Jeannette  ?  She  is  the  last 
person  for  three  leagues  around  I 
would  have  expected  to  find  in  such 
a  plight  at  this  hour  of  the  night. 
But  I  must  be  mistaken  ;  it  can't  be 
possible." 

And  with  that,  more  dead  than 
alive  from  the  violent  palpitation  of 
the  heart  which  suddenly  seized 
him,  Jean- Louis  rushed  towards  a 
thicket  of  young  chestnut-trees  that 
bordered  the  path,  and  from  which 
seemed  to  come  the  weak,  mournful 
voice  that  implored  pity.  He  pushed 
aside  the  branches  with  a  vigorous 
hand,  and  soon  discovered  a  girl,  in 
cloak  and  hood,  crouched  upon  the 
ground,  and  so  doubled  up  in  a  heap 
she  could  have  been  mistaken  at 
first  sight  for  a  large  ant-heap  or 
bundle  of  old  rags  left  there  by  some 
passing  beggar. 

"  For  the  love  of  our  Lord  and 
Saviour,  tell  me  who  you  are,  and 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


don't  be  afraid  of  me,"  said  Jeannet, 
leaning  over  the  poor  little  thing. 

She  raised  her  head,  and  instantly 
let  it  fall  again  on  her  knees,  around 
which  her  hands  were  clasped;  but 
as  the  lightning  continued  without 
ceasing  a  moment,  the  movement 
sufficed  for  Jean-Louis  to  recognize 
her. 

It  was  really  Jeanne  Ragaud,  but 
so  paralyzed  with  fear,  so  wet  and 
fainting,  she  seemed  about  to  breathe 
her  last.  Her  piteous  moans  were 
enough  to  break  one's  heart.  Her 
whole  body  trembled,  and  thus  hud- 
dled up  in  the  middle  of  the  mud  in 
the  dense  underbrush,  her  situation 
was  so  perilous  I  verily  believe  she 
would  have  met  her  death  in  that 
lonely  spot,  but  for  the  assistance  sent 
by  Heaven. 

"Jeanne,  Jeanne!"  cried  Jean- 
Louis,  coming  close  to  her,  "  keep 
up  your  courage,  my  darling.  Rouse 
up,  I  beg  of  you.  Be  brave  ;  you  are 
already  chilled  through.  It  is  danger- 
ous to  remain  in  the  woods  in  such  a 
storm." 

But  the  poor  little  creature  did  not 
move.  The  fright  and  cold  of  the 
terrible  tempest  had  totally  bewilder- 
ed her.  Jeannet  vainly  shook  her  by 
the  shoulders,  trying  to  raise  her  on 
her  feet,  and  to  unclasp  her  hands, 
which  had  stiffened  around  her  knees. 
He  could  not  make  her  change  her 
position  in  the  least.  What  could  be 
done?  He  did  not  know  precisely 
how  long  she  had  wandered  in  the 
wood  before  falling  down;  and  al- 
though he  had  just  heard  her  speak 
a  moment  before,  he  feared  that  she 
was  about  to  die,  as  perhaps  she  had 
been  struck  by  lightning. 

He  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and 
invoked  the  angels  of  paradise.  Im- 
mediately he  remembered  that  not 
far  from  this  grove  was  a  miserable 
cabin,  used  by  the  wood-cutters, 
half  tumbling  down,  but  still  suffi- 


ciently sound  to  shelter  a  Christian. 
This  thought  gave  him  fresh  strength ; 
and  taking  the  little  thing,  doubled 
up  as  she  was,  in  his  arms,  he  raised 
her  from  the  ground,  and  carried  her, 
without  stopping,  to  the  wretched 
hut. 

Well  was  it  that  he  thought  of 
this  retreat,  and,  still  better,  that  it 
was  not  far  distant ;  for  Jeannette,  al- 
though slender  and  not  tall,  was  in 
a  dead  faint,  and  consequently  so 
heavy  that  Jeannet  was  perfectly  ex- 
hausted when  he  reached  the  shel- 
ter. 

By  a  still  greater  mercy,  he  had 
his  flint  in  his  pocket,  and,  luckily,  it 
had  not  been  injured  by  the  damp- 
ness. He  thus  was  able  to  strike  a 
light,  after  having  laid  the  poor  girl 
on  the  dry  earthen  floor.  He  quick- 
ly lighted  some  handfuls  of  brush 
and  straw  that  strewed  the  ground, 
and  by  their  smoky  light  discovered, 
in  a  corner  of  the  cabin,  a  good  moss 
mattress,  which  the  wood-men  used 
when  they  came  to  sleep  in  the 
place,  and  near  by  a  little  board,  up- 
on which  laid  a  packet  of  auribus — 
little  resin  candles  very  much  used  in 
our  province. 

"  May  God  be  praised  for  helping, 
me  !"  thought  the  brave  boy,  delight- 
ed at  having  found  poor  little  Jean- 
nette. "  It  is  a  poor  bed-room  in 
comparison  with  the  fine  apartments 
at  the  chateau,  but  worth  a  palace 
when  we  think  of  the  thicket  just 
now." 

He  unfastened  his  sister's  cloak, 
with  a  thousand  respectful  precau- 
tions, just  as  he  would  have  touched 
the  veil  that  covers  the  statue  of 
Our  Lady,  and  in  the  same  manner 
took  off  her  shoes  and  stockings, 
which  he  found  very  difficult,  as,  ow- 
ing to  the  dampness,  the  fine  thread 
stockings  clung  tightly  to  the  skin. 
That  accomplished,  he  built  up  the 
fire  with  all  the  rubbish  he  could  find, 


66 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


and,  turning  the  moss  mattress  in  such 
a  manner  that  Jeannette's  feet  were 
in  front  of  the  fire,  he  stretched  her 
gently  upon  it,  and  seated  himself 
beside  her,  waiting  for  her  to  recover 
her  senses. 

Thus  passed  half  an  hour  without 
the  little  one  stirring ;  fortunately, 
her  cloak  was  very  thick,  so  that  the 
rest  of  her  clothes  were  not  wet,  and 
he  could  thus  hope  for  the  best. 
But  it  was  the  first  time  Jeannet  had 
ever  watched  by  the  side  of  a  faint- 
ing girl;  and,  not  knowing  by  expe- 
rience what  to  do  in  such  a  case,  the 
time  seemed  to  him  very  long  be- 
fore she  revived.  He  himself  was 
dripping  wet,  and,  although  he  scarce- 
ly gave  it  a  thought,  he  shivered  as 
one  who  might  soon  have  the  chills- 
and-fever. 

"  It  would  be  very  queer  if  I  also 
should  have  an  inclination  to  faint ; 
what  then  would  become  of  us  ?" 
thought  Jean-Louis,  who  really  began 
to  feel  very  uncomfortable. 

As  this  idea  entered  his  head,  Jean- 
nette  moved  her  little  feet  before  the 
tire,  and  began  to  sigh,  and  then  to 
yawn,  which  was  the  best  sign  that 
there  was  no  danger  of  dying,  as 
there  is  always  hope  as  long  as  a 
sick  person  can  yawn.  A  minute 
afterwards,  she  raised  herself,  and 
looked  around  with  astonished  eyes 
that  asked  an  explanation. 

"  Well,"  said  the  happy  Jeannet, 
"  how  do  you  feel,  my  poor  little  sis- 
ter ?" 

"  Is  it  you  ?"  she  asked,  still  trem- 
bling. "O  Jeannet!  how  frightened 
I  was. " 

And  as  she  spoke,  she  tried  to 
throw  her  arms  around  his  neck,  like 
a  child  who  seeks  refuge  on  his  mo- 
ther's breast.  Jean-Louis  drew  back 
— something  which  was  entirely  dif- 
ferent from  his  usual  manner  of  re- 
ceiving her  caresses. 

"  Are  you  angry  ?"  said  she.     "  I 


have  done  nothing  wrong,  except  to 
venture  out  to-night  to  return  home; 
but  the  weather  was  not  bad  when  I 
started,  and  I  did  not  dream  of  such 
a  storm." 

"  I  angry  ?  Why  should  1  be  ?"  cri- 
ed Jean-Louis,  kissing  both  her  hands. 
"  No,  no,  my  pet ;  on  the  contrary,  I 
am  most  happy  to  see  you  a  little  re- 
stored. But  I  am  thoroughly  drench- 
ed with  the  rain ;  that  is  the  reason  I 
don't  wish  you  to  touch  me." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  she ;  "  I  did 
not  notice  it  before.  What  were  you 
doing  before  this  good  fire,  instead 
of  drying  yourself  ?" 

"  I  was  looking  at  you,"  replied 
Jeannet  innocently. 

"  Big  goose !"  cried  the  little  thing 
laughing  heartily  with  her  usual  good 
humor.  "  Hadn't  you  any  more  sense 
than  that?  And  now  you  are  just 
ready  to  catch  the  ague." 

"  Don't  be  uneasy,  Jeannette ;  it  is 
not  the  first  time  I  have  had  a  check 
of  perspiration.  What  I  hope  is  that 
you  will  not  suffer  by  this  adven- 
ture, any  more  than  I.  But  tell  me, 
why  did  you  run  away  from  the  fete 
at  the  very  moment  the  dancing  was 
about  to  commence  ?" 

"  I  cannot  say  why,"  replied  Jean- 
nette. "  Sometimes  we  have  ideas 
we  must  follow,  whether  or  no.  It 
is  as  though  some  one  stronger  than 
we  were  pushing  us  by  the  shoulders 
the  way  he  wished  us  to  go.  To 
speak  frankly,  I  saw  you  leave  has- 
tily, and  I  instantly  became  more 
serious,  and  felt  less  desire  to  be 
amused.  I  said  to  myself,  Doubtless 
Jeannet,  who  is  better  than  I,  knows 
that  father  and  mother  are  alone 
waiting  for  him  at  Muiceron,  and  he 
cannot  bear  the  thought  of  their  sit- 
ting up  for  him  until  late  at  night. 
And  I,  what  am  I  doing  ?  Am  I 
not  also  a  child  of  the  house  ?  Jean- 
net  will  relate  all  that  happened  at 
the  dinner,  and  they  will  ask,  « And 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


67 


Jeannette  ?'  '  Oh !  yes,  Jeannette ; 
does  Jeannette  think  of  anything  else 
but  amusing  herself  and  talking  non- 
sense far  away  from  her  parents  ?' 
At  these  thoughts  my  heart  throb- 
bed so  I  nearly  burst  into  tears; 
just  then  mademoiselle  was  busy 
replying  to  the  compliments  every 
one  was  offering  her ;  so  I  left  the 
barn,  and  went  after  my  cloak,  and, 
without  further  reflection,  started  for 
Muiceron.  You  know  how  afraid 
I  am  of  thunder  and  lightning; 
when  I  saw  the  storm  coming  up,  I 
became  bewildered,  and  don't  know 
which  way  I  went,  but  I  suppose  it 
was  the  wrong  one.  When  I  regain- 
ed what  I  thought  was  the  right 
path,  the  storm  was  still  raging,  and 
I  would  have  died  of  fright,  but  for 
you,  my  old  fellow." 

"  Thank  God  you  escaped  this 
time !"  said  Jean-Louis,  very  much 
touched  by  the  simple  recital,  which 
showed  the  good  heart  of  the  little 
girl ;  "  but,  nevertheless,  you  ran  a 
great  risk.  Now,  Jeannette,  let  us 
hurry  home ;  we  must  quit  this  place, 
as  it  must  be  late." 

"  I  suppose  it  is,"  said  she. 
"  Haven't  you  your  watch  to  see  what 
time  it  is  ?" 

"  I  left  it  hanging  up  in  my  room," 
replied  Jeannet.  "  I  did  not  wish 
to  wear  it  when  at  dinner  in  the 
chateau,  for  fear  it  might  look  as 
though  I  wished  to  display  it  before 
those  who  had  none ;  and  it  is  well 
I  did  not  take  it,  as  it  would  have 
been  ruined  by  the  rain." 

"  How  can  I  walk  barefooted  ?" 
asked  Jeannette.  "  I  can't  put  on 
my  wet  stockings." 

"  And  your  shoes  still  less,"  replied 
her  brother,  laughing.  "  But  if  you 
will  let  me,  Jeannette,  I  can  carry 
you." 

"  Poor  Jeannet !  ,  Not  at  all ;  it 
would  be  too  much  for  you,"  said 
she.  "  Go  to  Muiceron,  and  bring  me 


my  wooden  shoes.  It  is  all  quiet  now 
outside ;  I  don't  hear  any  noise,  and 
I  will  not  be  afraid  to  remain  here 
alone  for  a  little  while." 

It  was  really  the  best  and  shortest 
way  of  getting  over  the  difficulty. 
Jean-Louis  opened  the  door  of  the 
cabin,  and  saw  that  the  sky  was 
clear  and  bright ;  not  this  time  with 
the  lightning's  glare,  but  with  the 
soft  rays  of  the  moon  and  beautiful 
stars  of  the  good  God.  All  was 
quiet  and  peaceful,  except  that  great 
drops  fell  from  the  trees,  still  wet 
with  the  heavy  rain,  and  that  the 
ruts  in  the  road  were  filled  with 
water,  that  made  them  look  like  little 
rivulets. 

"  Watch  the  fire,  Jeannette,  and  be 
patient  ten  minutes,"  said  he;  "and 
in  two  strides  I  will  be  there  and 
back  again." 

It  took  a  little  longer  time  than 
that  to  return,  as  on  entering  the 
farm  he  met  Ragaud,  who  was  look- 
ing to  see  if  the  storm  had  injured 
the  palings  around  the  barn-yard, 
and  was  therefore  obliged  to  stop 
and  in  a  few  words  relate  the  night's 
adventure. 

The  good  man,  while  grumbling 
and  scolding  at  the  imprudence  of 
his  daughter,  who,  he  said,  had  no 
more  sense  than  a  child  six  years  old, 
felt  fearfully  anxious,  as  was  easily 
shown  by  the  rapid  questions  he  ask- 
ed Jean-Louis.  To  assure  himself  that 
nothing  was  kept  behind,  and  that 
the  boy,  from  kindness  of  heart,  had 
not  disguised  the  truth,  he  hastily 
took  down  his  big  woollen  scarf  from 
the  hook,  and  hurried  off. 

"  I  will  lecture  the  giddy  child 
well,"  said  he.  "  Go  before,  Jeannet ; 
I  will  follow  you.  It  is  not  far,  so 
hurry." 

"Mother  will  be  anxious,"  said 
Jeannet.  "  Let  me  go  alone ;  I  will  be 
back  the  sooner." 

"  Your  mother  has  been  asleep  a 


68 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


long  time,"  replied  Ragaud,  "  or  else 
she  would  have  been  on  our  heels 
before  this,  and  we  would  have  had 
to  carry  her  back  also.  Fasten  the 
bolt,  without  any  noise,  and  let  us  be 
off." 

With  that  they  started.  Ragaud 
was  quick  and  light  for  his  age,  and 
they  proceeded  at  a  rapid  rate,  which 
soon  brought  them  to  their  journey's 
end.  Jean-Louis  carried  a  bright 
lantern  and  a  bundle  of  woollen  stock- 
ings and  wooden  shoes  he  had  taken 
at  random  out  of  the  chest ;  for  it  was 
all-important  that  Jeannette's  feet 
should  be  well  warmed,  and  that  she 
should  be  in  her  comfortable  bed  as 
soon  as  possible,  so  as  to  prevent 
fresh  chills. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  they 
reached  the  hut,  which  enables  us  to 
see  what  a  long  time  had  elapsed 
since  Jean-Louis'  flight  from  the 
chateau,  what  a  good  sound  sleep 
he  had  had  in  the  wood,  and  proves 
that  the  storm  and  Jeannette's  swoon 
were  not  slight  affairs. 

As  soon  as  they  entered — Jeannet 
the  first,  Ragaud  behind  him — they 
saw  that  the  lantern  was  a  wise  pre- 
caution. The  heap  of  brush-wood 
was  burnt  up,  and  there  was  no 
light,  except  from  a  little  pile  of  red 
ashes,  as  even  the  resin  candle  glued 
to  the  wall  was  flickering  and  falling 
in  big  drops,  which  announced  its 
speedy  death. 

"  Here  we  are,  my  Jeanne,"  cried 
Jean-Louis  from  the  threshold  of  the 
door.  "  Father  is  with  me,  and  we 
have  brought  fresh  lights." 

No  answer.  The  child  was  so 
weak  and  faint,  it  looked  as  though 
she  had  swooned  again.  Ragaud, 
at  this  sight,  forgot  the  scolding  he 
intended  giving  his  daughter  by  way 
of  welcome,  and,  leaning  over  her, 
placed  his  hand  on  her  forehead, 
which  was  icy  cold. 

"  She  is  very  ill,  I  tell  you,"  mur- 


mured the  good  man.  "  Bring  the 
lantern  here,  Jeannet.  God  have 
mercy  on  me,  how  pale  the  poor 
child  is !  ...  Jeanne,  Jeanne,  don't 
you  know  us  ?" 

"  Ah !  yes,  my  father,"  she  whis- 
pered, looking  languidly  at  him.  "  I 
hear  you,  but  I  am  so  sleepy  .  .  ,. 
so  sleepy  ...  I  can't  talk." 

"  But  you  must  wake  up,  and  leave 
this  place,"  said  Ragaud.  "  Try  and 
rouse  yourself,  my  child  ;  in  five  min- 
utes we  will  be  at  the  house." 

She  made  the  effort,  and  tried  to 
stand  on  her  feet ;  but  for  Jeannet, 
who  was  near  and  caught  her,  she 
would  have  fallen  down. 

"  I  am  so  tired  !"  she  said  again, 
closing  her  eyes. 

"  Shall  we  carry  you  on  a  chair 
to  see  the  king  ?"  asked  Jean-Louis. 
"  Perhaps  that  will  be  the  best  way." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  she,  smiling  at 
this  remembrance  of  her  childhood ; 
"  that  will  be  fun." 

Undoubtedly  you  know  what  is  a 
chair  to  see  the  king?  It  is  a  child's 
play,  which  generally  is  done  by 
three  persons — two  boys  and  a  girl ; 
the  boys  clasp  hands  in  such  a  man- 
ner that  a  good  seat  is  made  for  the 
girl,  who  thus,  without  any  fatigue  to 
the  bearers,  can  be  carried  as  easily 
as  in  a  carriage. 

Ragaud  highly  approved  of  the 
idea.  Jeannet,  who  thought  of  every- 
thing, tied  the  lantern  to  a  piece  of 
cord,  and  suspended  it  to  Jeannette's 
neck,  who  recovered  enough  strength 
to  laugh  ;  and  thus,  well  lighted  and 
very  happy,  they  started  on  their  re- 
turn to  the  farm,  which  they  soon 
reached  safe  and  sound. 

They  entered  Muiceron  by  the 
kitchen  door,  so  softly  that  Pierrette, 
who  was  sleeping  in  the  big  front 
room,  did  not  hear  the  slightest 
noise.  Jeannette  appeared  perfectly 
restored ;  she  was  gay,  although  still 
pale  and  shivering ;  but  she  assured 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


69 


them  the  warmth  of  the  bed  would 
soon  make  her  feel  better.  So  they 
embraced,  and,  after  many  good- 
nights,  retired  to  their  rooms. 

The  next  morning  Ragaud  told 
Pierrette  all  the  events  of  the  pre- 
ceding night,  but  forbade  her  entering 
Jeannette's  room,  for  fear  she  might 
be  awakened  too  soon  after  her  great 
fatigue ;  but  at  the  same  time,  unable 
to  restrain  his  own  curiosity,  he  took 
off  his  wooden  shoes,  softly  lifted  the 
latch,  walked  on  tiptoe  to  the  bed, 
and  peeped  between  the  curtains, 
just  to  see,  for  a  second,  how  the 
child  was  resting. 

Alasi  poor  Jeannette  was  sitting 
up  in  bed,  her  face  on  fire,  her  eyes 
wandering  in  delirium,  her  whole 
body  burning  with  fever.  She  knew 
no  one.  Her  excitement  was  so  great 
she  beat  the  air  with  her  bare  arms, 
while  her  throat  was  so  choked  up 
the  voice  was  nearly  stifled.  Ragaud 
thought  she  was  dying ;  he  uttered  a 
loud  cry,  which  brought  Pierrette  to 
the  bedside,  where  the  poor  mother 
fell  down,  half  fainting  with  grief  and 
fright. 

In  an  instant  the  whole  farm  was 
in  a  tumult.  Big  Marion  set  up  a 
blubbering,  crying  that  the  child  was 
dying ;  the  cow-herds  and  stable- 
boys  burst  into  the  room,  and,  seeing 
every  one  in  tears,  began  to  whine 
in  their  turn  without  exactly  know- 
ing why.  Jean-Louis  alone,  when 
he  saw  his  sister's  dreadful  condition, 
did  not  shed  a  tear  or  make  a  sound, 
but,  darting  out  of  the  room  like  an 
arrow,  leaped  on  a  horse's  bare  back, 
and  galloped  off  for  the  doctor,  who 
lived  half  a  league  beyond  Val-Saint, 
towards  the  large  town  of  Preuilly. 

By  good  fortune,  he  found  him  at 
home,  as  it  was  quite  early ;  and, 
while  explaining  the  pressing  case 
that  brought  him,  spied  the  doctor's 
wagon  under  the  shed,  and  quickly 
harnessed  to  it  the  horse  which  he 


had  ridden,  so  that,  in  less  time  than 
it  takes  to  say  it,  doctor,  wagon, 
horse,  and  Jean- Louis  were  on  the 
way  to  Muiceron,  and  reached  there 
before  any  one  else  had  thought 
that,  before  such  great  lamentation, 
no  matter  what  was  the  trouble,  it 
would  have  been  better  to  have  run 
promptly  for  assistance. 

And  here  you  will  excuse  me  if  I 
add,  by  way  of  advice,  that  presence 
of  mind,  which  is  not  counted  among 
the  virtues,  is  one  nevertheless,  and 
not  at  all  to  be  disdained  in  the  life 
of  this  world;  and,  therefore,  I  beg 
of  you  always  to  keep  a  good  share 
in  reserve,  for  I  do  not  doubt  you 
may  soon  find  use  for  it,  if  not  to-day, 
perhaps  to-morrow,  and  you  will  al- 
ways do  well  to  remember  what  I 
say. 

XIII. 

The  doctor,  on  seeing  the  room  of 
the  patient  filled  with  people  lament- 
ing from  useless  tenderness  of  heart, 
instead  of  doing  something  for  her 
relief,  began  by  being  very  angry. 
He  was  a  good  man,  rather  rough 
and  coarse  in  manner,  but  skilful  in 
his  profession,  and  understood  per- 
fectly how  to  manage  peasants,  for 
he  had  always  practised' in  the  coun- 
try, and  was  himself  of  the  upper 
class  of  villagers. 

"  What  is  such  a  lot  of  noisy,  lazy 
bawlers  doing  around  a  sick  girl, 
who  needs  air  and  quiet  ?"  he  cried. 
"  Get  out  of  here,  the  whole  of  you, 
and  don't  one  dare  come  within  ten 
yards.  You,  Ragaud,  can  stay  if 
you  choose,  but  keep  as  quiet  as  you 
are  now,  and  don't  look  as  if  you 
were  more  dead  than  alive,  with  your 
miserable  face  a  foot  long ;  you, 
Mme.  Ragaud,  stop  hugging  your 
daughter.  Let  her  go;  don't  you  see 
you  are  smothering  her  ?  And  above 
all,  don't  be  dropping  your  tears  on 
her  face ;  she  don't  know  you.  Jean- 
Louis,  don't  stir  from  here ;  you  are 


7o 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


reasonable  and  courageous,  and  will 
be  useful  to  me.  And  now  open  the 
window,  and  let  out  this  smell  of  the 
stables  brought  by  those  abominable 
cow-herds,  who  ought  to  have  been 
driven  out  with  a  pitchfork.  Good. 
Now  tell  me  what  has  happened  to 
this  child." 

All  being  thus  quieted,  and  the 
room  purified  by  the  fresh  morning 
air,  which  came  freely  in  through  the 
open  window,  a  slight  change  for  the 
better  was  soon  seen  in  Jeannette. 
She  let  them  lay  her  head  on  the 
pillow,  and,  although  she  was  still  in- 
sensible, her  pretty  face,  crimson  and 
swollen  with  the  fever,  looked  less  ex- 
cited. The  doctor  counted  her  pulse 
while  he  listened  to  the  night's  ad- 
venture, which  was  correctly  related 
by  Jean-Louis,  as  neither  the  father 
nor  mother  could  have  put  two  ideas 
together  at  that  particular  moment. 

"Just  as  I  thought,"  said  the  doc- 
tor ;  "  a  violent  fever  brought  on  by 
exposure  to  the  cold,  and  wet  feet. 
All  the  danger  is  in  the  head,  and  I 
do  not  deny  that  it  is  very  great. 
The  child  has  a  cerebral  fever;  do 
you  understand  ?  Cerebral  means  of 
the  brain.  Now  the  brain  is  the  in- 
side of  the  head ;  so  the  sickness  is 
there,  under  this  beautiful  blonde 
hair,  which  you  must  instantly  cut 
off.  I  hope,  Mme.  Ragaud,  you  will 
not  hesitate  to  sacrifice  your  daugh- 
ter's hair  to  save  her  life  ?" 

"  O  my  God !"  cried  poor  Pier- 
rette, sobbing.  "  Do  what  you  please, 
my  dear  doctor ;  if  it  would  be  of  any 
use  to  cut  off  one  of  my  arms,  I 
would  willingly  allow  it." 

"  Yes,  my  good  woman,  but  that 
would  not  help  you  much,  and  her 
not  at  all;  so  keep  your  arms,  we 
will  need  them  for  something  else. 
Come,  we  must  relieve  her.  Jump 
in  the  wagon,  Jeannet,  and  go  to  the 
chateau,  and  tell  them  to  send  me 
some  ice,  mustard,  and  other  things 


that  I  will  write  on  this  slip  of  paper  ; 
and  remember  to  tell  mademoiselle 
not  to  be  uneasy,  and  not  to  put  her 
foot  in  this  house  short  of  a  week. 
While  waiting  for  the  return  of  Jean- 
Louis,  Mme.  Ragaud,  draw  a  bucket 
of  water  from  the  well,  and  bring  it 
to  me  immediately." 

Poor  Pierrette  obeyed  without  say- 
ing a  word,  which  was  very  beautiful 
in  her;  for  hearing  it  announced  that 
her  daughter  was  ill  from  cold,  the 
words  ice  and  well-water  confused 
her  terribly.  She  had  already  been 
horrified  when  commanded  to  open 
the  window.  Indeed,  Dr.  Aubry 
was  no  fool,  as  had  been  well  proved 
for  twenty  years ;  and  the  best  way 
was  to  think  that  he  knew  what  he 
was  about,  no  matter  how  unreason- 
able his  words  might  sound. 

Jean-Louis  performed  his  errand 
with  his  usual  promptitude ;  he 
brought  back  what  was  needed  for 
the  first  applications.  During  his  ab- 
sence, the  doctor  had  constantly  ap- 
plied bandages,  soaked  in  very  cold 
water,  to  Jeannette's  head  ;  but  that 
was  not  effective  enough,  and,  as 
soon  as  the  ice  was  brought  from  the 
chateau,  he  prepared  to  use  it.  It 
was  the  moment  to  accomplish  the 
sacrifice  of  Jeannette's  beautiful  hair, 
which  was  still  dressed  as  for  the 
previous  night's  dance.  To  tell  the 
truth,  the  thick,  heavy  braids  were 
enough  to  weigh  down  the  poor  sick 
head.  Pierrette  showed  great  cour- 
age; she  only  cared  for  the  relief  of 
her  child.  As  for  the  doctor,  he 
thought  no  more  of  cutting  off  this 
splendid  hair  than  of  pulling  up  a 
bunch  of  nettle  out  of  the  flower- 
beds in  his  garden. 

Ragaud  sat  as  though  nailed  to  his 
chair,  and  seemed  neither  to  hear  nor 
see  any  thing  passing  around  him.  You 
would  have  pitied  the  poor  old  man. 
But  our  Jeannet,  so  brave  until 
then,  could  not  look  on  inauferer-tly 


The  Farm  of  M nicer  on. 


at  the  murderous  play  of  the  scissors 
around  that  dear  head,  which  would  so 
soon  be  shorn  of  its  crowning  beauty. 
As  the  doctor  cut  off  a  tress  and 
threw  it  on  the  floor,  as  if  it  were  a 
noxious  weed,  he  picked  it  up  and 
smoothed  it  with  his  hand,  as 
though  to  repay  by  caresses  the  con- 
demnation it  had  received.  Thus 
he  soon  had  all  the  fair  hair  in  his 
hands ;  and  then,  as  he  thought  that 
soon — too  soon,  perhaps — it  might  be 
the  only  living  vestige  of  Jeannette, 
his  courage  vanished  ;  he  sank  on  a 
chair  near  the  window,  hid  his  face 
in  the  mass  of  hair,  that  was  still 
warm,  and  sobbed  as  though  his 
heart  would  break.  .  .  . 

This  touched  Dr.  Aubry,  who  was 
kind-hearted  under  his  rough  exte- 
rior. He  never  talked  sentiment, 
being  too  much  accustomed  to  tears 
and  lamentations  around  sick-beds; 
but  he  loved  Jeannet,  and  thought 
him  more  refined  and  superior  in 
tone  to  the  surrounding  boys.  So 
he  approached  the  poor  child,  and, 
tapping  him  on  the  shoulder,  he  said 
by  way  of  consolation :  "  Bah  !  you 
big  ninny,  that  will  improve  her  hair; 
in  one  year  it  will  be  handsomer  and 
thicker  than  ever,  and  you  will  have 
enough  of  this  to  make  a  hundred 
yards  of  watch-chain." 

"  In  one  year  !"  cried  Jean-Louis, 
who  only  heard  this  word  of  all  the 
fine  consolation.  "  Then  you  don't 
think  she  will  die  ?" 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ? 
Die  ?  A  beautiful  young  girl  of  sev- 
enteen, who  has  always  been  healthy 
and  good,  don't  die  from  having  got 
her  feet  soaked  on  a  stormy  night. 
Be  reasonable,  follow  my  orders, 
keep  everything  around  quiet  and 
fresh,  don't  fatigue  her  with  words 
and  embraces  when  she  recovers  her 
senses,  and,  with  the  help  of  God,  I 
will  answer  for  her." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Jean -Louis,  throwing 


his  arms  around  the  doctor's  neck, 
"  may  Heaven  listen  to  you,  M.  Au- 
bry !" 

These  cheering  words  brought  old 
Ragaud  back  to  life ;  big  tears  rolled 
from  his  dry,  fixed  eyes,  and  relieved 
him  greatly.  Pierrette  fell  on  her 
knees  by  the  bedside;  for,  before 
thanking  the  doctor,  it  was  right  to 
raise  her  heart  to  God,  who  saw  fur- 
ther still  than  he. 

M.  Aubry  again  repeated  his  or- 
ders, which  he  always  did — oftener 
six  times  than  once  with  his  village 
patients;  for  it  must  be  acknow- 
ledged we  are  very  stupid  about 
nursing,  and,  outside  of  the  common 
remedies,  which  are  purgatives,  emet- 
ics, and  quinine  to  break  the  fever, 
all  the  rest  of  the  medical  gibberish 
appears  to  us  very  strange,  and  often 
rather  contrary  to  good  sense.  Tiiat 
is  the  reason  those  who  are  cured 
burn  a  candle  to  S.  Sylvain.  But 
for  his  kind  protection,  there  would 
be  as  many  deaths  as  sick  people ; 
and  if  you  find  fault  with  that  ex- 
pression, I  will  tell  you  that  I  am 
very  sorry  for  it,  but  that  is  the  way 
we  talk,  and  I  cannot  express  myself 
differently  or  more  delicately  than  I 
was  taught. 

The  doctor  drove  off  in  his  wagon, 
to  which  the  farm-horse  was  still 
harnessed,  and  he  had  the  privilege 
of  keeping  it  several  days,  which  was 
a  great  convenience  to  him,  as  his 
own  beast  was  out  at  pasture.  He 
took  care  to  pass  by  Val-Saint, 
where  he  found  mademoiselle  very 
anxious  and  sad  about  her  god- 
daughter's accident.  As  soon  as  she 
heard  it  was  a  serious  illness,  she 
rushed  to  the  bell,  crying  that  she 
must  have  the  carriage  immediately 
to  go  to  her  darling;  but  M.  Aubry, 
who  had  his  own  way  with  every 
one,  caught  her  by  the  arm. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he ; 
"  but  you  are  not  going  there  at  all." 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


'•  Why  not  ?"  she  asked.  "  I  can- 
not stay  here  without  seeing  my 
Jeanne,  when  I  know  she  is  suffer- 
ing." 

"  You  shall  not  go,"  repeated  M. 
Aubry  firmly.  "  It  would  be  danger- 
ous for  you ;  and  I  am  your  physician 
as  well  as  hers." 

"  What  nonsense !"  said  made- 
moiselle, who,  gentle  as  she  was, 
did  not  like  him  to  oppose  her.  "  You 
will  never  make  me  believe  a  brain 
fever  is  contagious." 

"  That  is  yet  to  be  seen,"  replied 
M.  Aubry,  who  could  lie  when  neces- 
sary as  well  as  any  dentist ;  "  and,  if 
you  should  get  sick,  I  declare  that, 
daughter  of  a  marquis  as  you  are,  I 
would  not  have  the  time  to  take 
care  of  you.  At  this  moment  I  have 
more  sick  people — maimed,  wounded, 
and  down  with  fever — than  I  can 
manage,  and  I  don't  want  another 
case;  without  counting  that  your 
chateau  is  perched  up  as  high  as  the 
devil,  and,  to  get  up  here,  I  would  lose 
half  a  day." 

"  You  horrid  man !"  said  made- 
moiselle, who  could  not  help  smiling, 
lor  she  knew  the  doctor's  way,  and 
never  took  offence  at  what  he  said. 
"  You  talk  like  a  car-driver  ;  but  you 
are  perfectly  capable  of  doing  as  you 
say,  so  I  dare  not  risk  it.  But  when 
can  I  go  ?" 

"  We  will  see  about  that ;  neither 
to-morrow  nor  next  day,  nor  for 
several  days  after.  I  will  come  and 
bring  news  of  her." 

"  But  how  will  you  find  time,  with 
all  your  patients  ?"  asked  made- 
moiselle, delighted  to  catch  the  doctor 
in  a  little  falsehood. 

"  You  give  me  the  change  for  my 
money,"  said  M.  Aubry,  laughing  in 
his  turn.  "  I  see  you  are  as  malicious 
as  ever.  Well,  then,  to  speak  frankly, 
it  is  not  the  contagion  that  I  fear, 
but  your  chattering  and  gabbling, 
which  never  stop.  If  La  Ragaudine 


recovers,  it  will  depend  upon  quiet 
and  repose.  Not  even  the  buzzing  of 
a  fly  must  be  heard  in  her  room  for 
a  week;  therefore,  it  would  be  useless 
for  you  to  go  there.  But  now  you 
can  act  as  you  think  proper." 

"  You  should  have  told  me  this  at 
first,"  said  mademoiselle.  "  I  will  not 
go;  but  promise  me  you  will  always 
tell  the  truth  about  her.  and  never 
conceal  any  danger." 

"  My  God !  no,"  said  the  doctor 
quietly; "  and,  to  commence,  since  you 
do  not  wish  me  to  disguise  the  truth, 
I  will  tell  you  that,  if  Jeanne  Ragaud 
does  not  recover  her  senses  to-night, 
she  will  be  dead  to-morrow  at  twelve 
o'clock." 

"  But  you  are  a  monster !"  cried 
mademoiselle,  the  tears  streaming 
from  her  eyes.  "  How  can  you  be  so 
hard-hearted  as  to  tell  me  such  news 
without  any  preparation  ?" 

"  There  !"  said  the  doctor,  "  you 
are  off  again.  I  thought  you  wished 
me  to  tell  you  the  whole  truth." 

"  My  poor  Jeanne  !  Dead  to-mor- 
row !"  sobbed  mademoiselle. 

"  One  moment — pay  attention  to 
what  I  say — if  she  does  not  recover 
her  senses  to-night;  but  she  will,  for 
she  was  already  a  little  better  before 
I  left  Muiceron." 

"  Oh  !  I  wish  you  would  go  away  !" 
cried  mademoiselle.  "  I  hate  to  hear 
you  talk  ;  you  will  set  me  wild.  .  .  . 
Come  now,  doctor,  speak  seriously  : 
is  poor  dear  Jeannette  really  in  dan- 
ger ?" 

"  I  tell  you  yes,  but  I  have  great 
hope.  And  now  I  am  going  away  ; 
you  are  not  angry  with  me,  dear 
mademoiselle  ?" 

"  I  will  have  to  forgive  you,"  said 
she,  giving  him  her  hand;  "  but  know 
well  that  I  detest  you  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart,  and,  when  I  am 
sick,  I  will  send  for  another  doc- 
tor." 

"  Bah !   I  bet  you  won't,"  replied 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


73 


M.  Aubry,  perfectly  unmoved ;  "  you 
are  so  amiable  and  gentle  when  the 
fever  comes  on !" 

Mademoiselle  laughed  through  her 
tears;  she  knew  from  experience  it 
was  not  easy  to  have  the  last  word 
with  M.  Aubry,  and  she  let  him  go 
without  further  discussion. 

The  good  God  showed  that  he 
loved  Muiceron.  For  three  days 
Jeannette  was  very  ill,  after  which 
her  youth  and  good  constitution 
overcame  the  disease.  M.  Aubry  de- 
clared he  would  answer  with  his 
head  for  hers,  and  soon  the  dear 
child  recovered  strength  and  color. 
But  this  was  the  moment  to  be 
careful ;  for  convalescence  is  very 
uncertain  and  dangerous,  they  say,  in 
such  a  case,  and  the  least  imprudence 
will  suffice  to  cause  a  relapse.  There- 
fore the  doctor  for  ever  repeated  : 

"  Attend  to  what  I  say ;  because 
she  is  better,  that  is  no  reason  to 
think  she  is  cured.  Don't  let  her 
stir  any  more  than  you  would  let 
loose  a  chicken  among  the  fir-trees ; 
these  affections  of  the  brain  are  terri- 
ble if  there  is  a  relapse." 

That  word,  affections,  was  another 
that  Pierrette  could  not  manage  to 
understand;  each  time  he  said  it 
she  was  terribly  perplexed,  and  look- 
ed intently  at  the  doctor,  to  see  if  he 
could  not  use  a  more  appropriate  one 
in  its  place. 

"  For,"  thought  she,  "  I  see  no- 
thing affectionate  in  such  a  wicked 
fever  that  nearly  brought  my  daugh- 
ter to  the  threshold  of  the  grave. 
Whoever  does  or  speaks  ill  is  always 
called  a  great  enemy ;  and  I  don't 
think  an  enemy  can  ever  be  affection- 
ate, or  friendly,  or  anything  else  of 
the  sort." 

And  you  will  acknowledge  the  ar- 
gument was  not  bad  for  a  good 
countrywoman,  who  knew  nothing 
except  to  read  her  Mass-prayers  by 
force  of  habit. 


It  is  not  necessary  to  inform  you 
that  all  the  people  around  were  very 
much  interested  in  Jeannette's  illness  ; 
and  if  there  is  a  consolation  that  sof- 
tens the  bitterness  of  grief,  it  is  surely 
that  which  is  given  by  friends  who 
offer  to  share  trouble.  Many  of  the 
neighbors  were  anxious  to  relieve 
Pierrette  by  taking  her  place  at  night ; 
but  you  understand  that  a  mother  is 
always  mother,  and,  unless  she  had 
fallen  dead  at  her  daughter's  bedside, 
she  would  yield  her  post  to  no  one. 
Happily,  the  great  danger  which  de- 
manded such  extreme  care  did  not 
last  long ;  and  as  at  the  end  of  a  week 
the  fever  left  Jeannette,  and  she  then 
slept  tranquilly  the  greater  part  of  the 
night,  Pierrette  consented  to  lie  down, 
without  undressing,  on  a  little  bed 
temporarily  placed  in  the  sick-room 
by  Jean-Louis,  and  thus  was  enabled 
to  obtain  some  rest. 

But  many  weeks  elapsed  before 
Jeannette  was  strong  enough  to  re- 
sume her  accustomed  life ;  and  as  she 
daily  felt  herself  improving,  the  great 
difficulty  was  to  keep  her  quiet  in 
bed,  and  furnish  her  amusement,  so 
that  she  would  not  get  up  too  soon, 
at  the  risk  of  falling  ill  again;  and 
here,  again,  Jean-Louis,  with  his  de- 
votion and  thoughtfulness,  provided 
a  remedy. 

Not  far  off  lived  a  beautiful  young 
girl,  a  year  or  two  older  than  Jean- 
nette, and  the  friend  of  her  childhood, 
named  Solange  Luguet,  the  sister  of 
Pierre;  she  was  tall,  rather  thin  and 
pale,  like  Jean-Louis,  whom  she 
somewhat  resembled  in  features  and 
character.  This  will  not  astonish 
you,  as  I  have  already  told  you  they 
were  first-cousins  without  knowing 
it;  and,  whether  legitimate  or  illegiti- 
mate, near  relatives  generally  have  a 
certain  family  resemblance. 

Solange  led  a  retired  life,  some 
said  from  piety,  others  from  shyness. 
She  was  a  skilful  seamstress,  and  em- 


74 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


broidered  beautifully;  consequently, 
she  never  wanted  work,  and  passed 
her  time  by  her  little  window,  sewing 
from  morning  till  night.  Jean-Louis 
was  very  fond  of  her.  He  often 
wished  Jeannette's  tastes  and  habits 
were  as  quiet,  and  he  sometimes  held 
up  Solange  to  her  as  a  model.  But 
Jeannette's  character  was  entirely 
different,  and  what  seemed  to  Solange 
the  perfection  of  happiness  would 
have  been  miserably  tiresome  for  her ; 
nevertheless,  the  two  girls  were  great 
friends,  and  were  always  happy  to 
meet. 

It  was,  therefore,  Solange  Luguet 
whom  Jeannet  thought  of  as  a 
means  of  distracting  Jeannette  during 
her  convalescence.  He  went  to  her, 
and  begged  that  she  would  come  and 
pass  several  hours  every  day  with 
Jeannette.  Solange  willingly  con- 
sented, as  she  could  take  her  work 
with  her,  and  whether  she  embroider- 
ed at  home  or  at  Muiceron  was  all 
the  same  to  her ;  and,  besides,  she 
could  be  useful  to  her  friends,  especi- 
ally Jean-Louis,  for  whom  it  was 
easy  to  see  she  felt  a  great  prefer- 
ence. 

Now,  Solange,  in  spite  of  her  repu- 
tation for  piety  and  shyness,  was 
very  lively  and  bright.  The  first 
day  she  came  to  the  farm  Jeannette 
was  quite  subdued;  without  saying 
it,  she  was  afraid  her  companion 
would  be  very  serious  and  frown  at 
the  least  joke.  But  it  was  just  the 
contrary ;  Solange  amused  her  so 
much  with  her  stories,  and  gossip — 
which  was  never  ill-natured — and 
songs,  that  Jeannette  never  let  her 
go  until  she  promised  to  return  next 
day.  This  pleasant  arrangement 
suited  everybody.  Ragaud  and 
Jean-Louis  gradually  resumed  their 
outdoor  work,  and  Pierrette  was  less 
tied  down.  We  all  know  that  weari- 
ness of  mind  is  the  worst  of  ills,  as  it 
renders  one  sad,  and  sadness  makes 


both  body  and  soul  sick :  so  this  little 
spoiled  Jeannette,  who  laughed  and 
chatted  from  morning  till  night,  re- 
covered four  times  as  rapidly,  thanks 
to  Solange's  agreeable  company,  and 
was  soon  able  to  sit  up  an  hour  or 
two  about  noon. 

Who  had  caused  all  this  happi- 
ness ?  Even  he  who  never  gave  it 
a  second  thought,  and  to  whom  it 
was  so  perfectly  natural  to  serve 
others  that  it  seemed  a  part  of  his 
everyday  life;  for  the  excellent 
Jeannet  spoke  so  seldom  of  himself, 
neither  Jeanne  nor  the  Ragauds  ever 
dreamt  of  thanking  him  for  having 
brought  Solange,  seeing  that  they 
knew  nothing,  and  simply  thought 
the  Luguet  girl  came  of  her  own  free 
will,  which  certainly  she  never  would 
have  done,  if  even  the  idea  had  ever 
entered  her  head. 

As  soon  as  mademoiselle  received 
permission,  she  hastened  to  Jean- 
nette's side.  Every  other  day  her 
beautiful  carriage  was  seen  coming 
down  the  road,  and,  a  minute  after, 
she  alighted,  accompanied  by  Dame 
Berthe,  who  always  brought  a  little 
basket  filled  with  dainties  and  deli- 
cacies fitted  to  tempt  an  invalid's 
stomach. 

Poor  mademoiselle  found  the  days 
very  long  since  Jeanne  had  left,  and 
was  very  impatient  for  her  complete 
recovery,  that  she  might  carry  her 
back  to  the  chateau.  She  did  not 
hesitate  to  express  her  desire  at  each 
visit  before  the  Ragauds,  never  re- 
marking that  neither  ever  replied  to 
her  proposition.  The  reason  was 
that  Ragaud  had  received  such  a 
severe  shock  by  the  narrow  escape 
of  his  daughter,  he  had  promised 
and  sworn  never  again  to  expose  the 
child  to  such  a  fearful  risk,  which 
had  so  nearly  proved  fatal.  He  saw 
in  this  terrible  sickness  a  warning 
from  the  good  God;  and,  as  he  felt 
it  in  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  he  ac- 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


75. 


knowledged  in  the  end  that  if  Jean- 
ne had  not  led  a  life  above  her  posi- 
tion, nothing  like  it  would  have  hap- 
pened. 

Between  ourselves,  mademoiselle, 
who  was  much  better  informed  than 
Ragaud,  should  have  even  more 
clearly  understood  it.  Still  further, 
as  M.  le  Cure,  who  you  can  well  im- 
agine came  constantly  to  Muiceron 
since  the  accident,  had  been  confi- 
dentially told  by  Ragaud  of  his  good 
resolutions,  which  he  highly  approv- 
ed, and  cautiously  approached  the 
subject  whenever  an  opportunity  of- 
fered of  conversing  with  mademoi- 
selle. But  "  none  are  so  deaf  as  those 
who  will  not  hear,"  said  this  good 
pastor;  "and  even  without  a  scene 
mischief  will  come  of  taking  Jean- 
nette  from  the  chateau.  Her  ac- 
quaintance there  is  too  long  formed." 

It  did  not  happen  precisely  so. 
Jeanne,  without  scenes  or  difficulty 
with  any  one,  had  been  forced  to 
seek  refuge  under  the  paternal  roof, 
and  should  have  remained  there  un- 
til the  present  time  from  her  own 
free  will  and  accord;  but  when  one 
has  strayed  ever  so  little  from  the 
right  path,  it  is  not  easy  to  return  to 
it,  even  when  it  has  not  gone  as  far  as 
mortal  sin ;  and  you  will  see  this 
time  again  that  I  have  strong  proofs 
to  support  what  I  have  advanced,  as 
Jeanne  Ragaud  had  to  undergo 
severe  and  bitter  trials  before  she 
could  entirely  give  up  the  half-noble 
position  she  had  involuntarily  filled, 
and  resume  fully  the  simple  peasant 
life. 

XIV. 

One  day,  when  mademoiselle  was 
making  her  accustomed  visit,  after 
she  had  talked  and  laughed,  and 
played  dinner-party  with  the  fruits 
and  delicacies  she  had  brought  to 
Jeannette,  she  suddenly  exclaimed : 

"  You  are  looking  admirably,  my 
child — as  pretty  as  a  picture;  your 


color  is  more  brilliant  than  even  be- 
fore you  were  sick,  and  your  short 
hair,  which  made  me  feel  so  sad  the 
first  time  I  saw  it,  is  more  becoming 
than  the  way  in  which  you  formerly 
wore  it ;  but  you  are  very  badly 
dressed.  What  have  you  done  with 
all  the  dresses  I  gave  you  ?" 

"  They  are  still  at  the  chateau,  god- 
mother," replied  Jeannet.  "  I  have 
not  needed  them  for  a  long  time. 
If  you  will  send  me  some  of  them,  I 
will  try  and  look  better  at  your  next 
visit." 

"You  are  very  much  thinner,  poor 
little  thing,  so  that  none  of  them  will 
fit  you  ;  besides,  it  will  be  a  long  while 
yet  before  you  can  go  out.  What 
you  want  is  a  dressing-gown,  and  I 
will  have  one  made  for  you,  if  you 
will  promise  me  to  wear  it." 

"When  you  come,  I  will,"  an- 
swered Jeannette,  who  knew  well 
such  a  dress  did  not  suit  her  posi- 
tion, and  that  her  parents  would  not 
like  it. 

"  No,  I  wish  you  to  wear  what  I 
will  send,  and  not  only  when  I  am 
here,  but  every  day ;  do  you  under- 
stand, child  ?  I  wish  it." 

"  O  godmother  !"  said  Jeannette, 
"  I  beg  you  will  not  insist  upon  it ; 
such  a  dress  is  very  well  at  the  cha- 
teau, but  here  I  cannot  dress  differ- 
ently from  my  mother." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  transform  you 
into  a  princess,"  replied  mademoi- 
selle ;  "  but  neither  do  I  like  to  see 
you  dressed,  as  you  are,  in  serge. 
I  have  my  own  reasons  for  it." 

Jeannette  bowed  her  head,  al- 
though at  heart  she  was  very  much 
dissatisfied.  Pretty  Solange,  who 
was  silently  working  away  in  her  cor- 
ner by  the  window,  gave  her  an  en- 
couraging glance,  to  keep  her  firm 
in  her  good  resolution;  but  for  ten 
years  Jeannette  had  given  in  to  all 
her  godmother's  whims  and  caprices, 
and  dared  not  answer. 


76 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


Two  days  afterwards,  a  large  band- 
box, directed  to  Jeannette,  was 
brought  to  Muiceron.  She  was  still 
in  bed,  and  was  quite  curious  until  it 
was  opened ;  and  there  was  the  pro- 
mised dress,  made  of  beautiful  blue 
cashmere,  so  fine  and  soft  it  looked 
like  silk.  As  to  how  it  was  made,  I 
really  cannot  describe  it;  but  it  is 
enough  to  know  that  mademoiselle 
herself  could  have  worn  it  without 
impropriety,  so  that  it  can  easily  be 
understood  it  was  not  suitable  for 
Jeanne  Ragaud. 

"  Isn't  it  beautiful  ?"  exclaimed 
Jeannette,  admiring  the  dress,  fit  for 
a  marchioness.  "  But  I  will  never 
wear  it  ;  do  you  think  I  should, 
Solan  ge  ?" 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Solange. 
"  Don't  do  it  for  the  world,  Jean- 
nette ;  it  would  be  very  wrong  for  you 
to  wear  it,  and  the  neighbors  would 
laugh  at  you." 

"  Help  me  to  get  up,"  replied 
Jeanne.  "  It  will  be  no  harm  to  try 
it  on  once;  it  will  amuse  us.  Can 
I?" 

v  "  Yes,  to  be  sure,"  said  good  So- 
lange ;  "  I  should  like  to  see  you  for 
once  dressed  as  you  were  at  the 
chateau." 

Jeannette  jumped  quickly  out  of 
bed,  and  Solange,  to  amuse  her, 
brushed  her  short  hair  in  such  a  way 
that  she  looked  like  a  little  angel ; 
then  she  put  on  some  fine  white  pet- 
ticoats, and,  last  of  all,  the  beautiful 
robe,  which  fitted  her  splendidly. 
Thus  dressed,  Jeannette  was  one  of 
the  prettiest  young  ladies  you  can 
imagine;  and  I  rather  think  she 
looked  at  herself  in  the  mirror  with 
great  satisfaction. 

She  sat  down  in  the  big  arm-chair 
her  godmother  had  sent  her  from  the 
chateau  as  soon  as  she  was  conva- 
lescent, and  it  was  easy  to  see  she 
was  not  ill  at  ease  in  her  beautiful 
present,  but  that,  on  the  contrary, 


was  infinitely  satisfied,  and  not  at  all 
anxious  to  take  it  off. 

However,  she  feared  the  arrival 
of  her  parents,  and  did  not  wish 
them  to  see  her  in  such  a  costume. 
Solange,  from  the  same  thought,  had 
not  resumed  her  work,  and  remained 
standing  before  her,  ready  to  undress 
her.  You  see  the  will  was  good, 
but  the  devil  was  upon  the  watch. 
At  the  very  moment  that  Jean- 
nette, with  a  little  sigh  of  regret, 
was  about  to  put  off  her  gay  trap- 
pings and  don  her  peasant  dress,  the 
big  white  horses  of  mademoiselle 
were  heard  pawing  the  ground  in  the 
yard. 

"  It  is  my  godmother  !"  said  Jean- 
nette, blushing.  "  Well,  I  am  not 
sorry ;  she  will  see  that  I  do  honor  to 
her  present." 

Mademoiselle  entered  immediate- 
ly after,  and,  seeing  Jeannette  so  pret- 
ty and  so  stylish  in  her  beautiful 
dress,  kissed  her  heartily,  and  loaded 
her  with  praises. 

"You  are  perfectly  lovely,"  said 
she ;  "  and  for  the  penalty,  I  have 
prepared  a  great  surprise.  There  is 
a  handsome  gentleman,  who  has 
come  with  me,  and  wishes  very  much 
to  see  you." 

"  Will  you  please  tell  me  who  it 
is  ?"  asked  Jeannette. 

"  No ;  I  wish  to  see  if  you  will 
recognize  him.  Come  in,  Isidore," 
cried  mademoiselle  to  some  one 
who  was  waiting  outside  the  door. 

The  said  Isidore  immediately  ap- 
peared— a  tall  young  man,  well  made, 
and  dressed  in  the  latest  Parisian 
style.  His  hair  was  elaborately  curl- 
ed, and  his  cravat,  gloves,  and  shoes 
were  so  elegant  he  looked  as  though 
he  had  just  been  taken  out  of  a 
bandbox.  He  made  a  low  bow  to 
Jeannette,  and  paid  her  a  compli- 
ment such  as  we  read  in  books. 

Jeannette,  much  amazed,  rose  with- 
out speaking,  and,  as  her  astonished 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


77 


look  showed  she  did  not  recognize 
him  in  the  least,  mademoiselle  laugh- 
ingly relieved  her  embarrassment. 

"What!"  said  she,  "you  don't 
remember  Isidore  Perdreau,  the  son 
of  Master  Perdreau,  my  father's  no- 
tary, and  the  playmate  of  your  child- 
hood ?" 

"  You  must  excuse  me,"  said 
Jeanne; "  but  he  is  so  much  changed." 

"  In  size,  perhaps,"  said  M.  Isidore, 
"  but  not  in  beauty,  as  you  most  cer- 
tainly are." 

"  He  has  returned  from  Paris,  and 
will  in  future  live  at  Val-Saint.  It 
is  very  good  in  him,"  said  mademoi- 
selle, "  for  his  life  will  be  very  differ- 
ent ;  but  his  father  wishes  to  associate 
him  with  himself  in  business." 

"  To  all  true  hearts  one's  native 
place  is  dear,"  replied  M.  Isidore, 
placing  his  hand  on  his  waistcoat. 

"  Don't  you  remember  the  young 
girl  by  Jeannette  ?"  asked  mademoi- 
selle. 

"  Not  precisely,"  he  replied. 

"  I  am  the  sister  of  Pierre  Luguet, 
with  whom  you  used  to  go  hunting 
for  blackbirds." 

"  Pierre  Luguet  ?  Ah !  yes,  little 
Pierre ;  and  where  is  he  now  ?" 

"Always  in  the  same  place,"  re- 
plied Solange,  without  stirring. 

M.  Isidore  did  not  condescend  to 
continue  the  conversation  with  one 
so  little  disposed  to  talk,  and,  turning 
towards  Jeanne,  lavished  upon  her 
some  more  foolish  compliments, 
which,  without  being  exactly  to  the 
taste  of  the  child,  were  not  displeas- 
ing to  her  vanity. 

It  was  evident  that  mademoiselle 
encouraged  Isidore,  and  thought  him 
very  charming.  It  was  not  because 
she  was  wanting  in  sense  or  pene- 
tration, but  the  custom  of  living  alone 
in  her  big  chateau,  where  she  rarely 
saw  any  one  but  country  people,  and 
the  new  distraction  of  carrying  out  a 
plot  that  she  had  concocted,  and 


which  you  will  soon  guess,  made  her 
see  things  dimly ;  and  whilst  Solange, 
simple  girl  a's  she  was,  saw  at  the 
first  glance  that  young  Perdreau  had 
become  an  insolent,  ridiculous  fop, 
this  high-born  young  lady,  who  had 
read  so  many  books,  was  ready  to 
faint  at  the  least  word  of  that  simple- 
ton— for  simpleton  was  the  name 
he  well  deserved  until  after-circum- 
stances proved  that  he  was  worthy  of 
a  still  more  odious  title. 

Dame  Berthe  behaved  just  like  her 
mistress;  but,  as  the  good  creature 
had  scarcely  any  common  sense,  that 
can  very  easily  be  understood.  Isi- 
dore, since  his  return  three  days  be- 
fore, had  never  ceased  to  flatter 
her  and  relate  long  stories  about 
Paris,  principally  his  own  inventions, 
but  to  which,  nevertheless,  the  old 
governess,  with  eyes,  ears,  and  mouth 
wide  open,  listened  with  devoted  at- 
tention. So,  when  Solange  showed 
such  coldness  to  her  old  school- 
fellow, mademoiselle  looked  at  her 
with  anything  but  a  gentle  expres- 
sion, and  Dame  Berthe  instantly 
shrugged  her  shoulders  and  made 
big  eyes  at  her. 

But  Solange  remained  perfectly  in- 
different ;  in  the  first  place,  because 
her  back  was  turned  to  the  ladies, 
and,  secondly,  because  she  worked 
away  as  though  she  expected  to  be 
paid  a  franc  an  hour. 

Meanwhile,  Pierrette  and  Ragaud 
came  back  from  the  pool  Saint- Jean, 
where  they  had  commenced  to  soak 
the  hemp,  and  Jean-Louis  soon  fol- 
lowed. When  they  saw  such  fine 
company  in  the  room,  they  all  three 
stopped,  rather  ashamed  of  their 
working-clothes,  which  was  doubt- 
less the  reason  they  did  not  observe 
that  Jeannet,  in  her  elegant  costume, 
was  a  great  contrast  to  them. 

Ragaud,  as  you  already  know,  was 
rather  given  to  vain-glory,  and  his 
vanity  was  easily  tickled.  It  was 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


the  only  defect  of  this  good  man,  but 
it  must  be  acknowledged  this  defect 
clung  to  his  heart  as1  a  tree  is  tied 
by  its  root  to  the  ground ;  so  that 
in  Isidore  Perdreau  he  only  saw  the 
favorable  side — to  wit,  a  young  man, 
brought  up  in  the  capital,  very  rich 
and  handsome,  who  could  be  re- 
ceived in  the  best  houses,  and  who 
did  not  disdain  to  hasten  to  greet 
old  friends  so  far  beneath  him.  Pier- 
rette, without  further  reasoning,  was 
very  sensible  of  what  she  likewise 
considered  a  great  honor.  So  the 
excellent  couple,  whose  honest  souls 
were  rather  stupefied  for  the  mo- 
ment, quite  overwhelmed  Perdreau 
with  the  warmth  of  their  reception, 
and  pressed  him  so  earnestly  to  re- 
peat his  visit  you  would  really  have 
thought  they  were  welcoming  the  re- 
turn of  their  own  son. 

Mademoiselle  was  in  a  gale  of  de- 
light, and,  when  she  re-entered  the 
carriage  with  her  attendants,  the 
lackeys'  faces  were  in  a  broad  grin 
at  seeing  her  so  gay,  and  even  the 
horses  made  two  or  three  little  jumps 
on  starting,  as  though  they,  too,  par- 
ticipated in  the  good-humor  of  their 
mistress. 

"  Well,  what  did  I  tell  you  ?"  asked 
mademoiselle  of  Isidore,  who  was 
seated  opposite  to  her.  "  Is  she  pretty 
enough,  well-bred  enough  ?  And,  in 
spite  of  all  your  Parisian  acquain- 
tances, do  you  think  she  is  a  woman 
to  be  scorned  ?" 

"  O  mademoiselle !"  cried  Per- 
dreau, "  she  is  adorable,  delightful ! 
But  you  brought  her  up;  isn't  that 
enough  ?" 

"She  will  make  a  lovely  bride," 
said  mademoiselle ;  "  and  it  will  be 
the  happiest  day  of  my  life  when  I 
shall  see  you  both  leave  the  church 
arm-in-arm." 

"  How  becoming  the  wreath  of 
orange-blossoms  will  be  to  her !" 
cried  Dame  Berthe. 


"  But  will  she  have  me  ?"  asked 
Isidore  in  a  hypocritical  tone. 

"  Bah !  be  assured  she  will  be 
most  happy,  and  her  parents  im- 
mensely honored,"  replied  mademoi- 
selle ;  ''  besides,  I  have  only  to  say  a 
word,  as  you  know." 

"You  are  an  angel!"  said  M. 
Perdreau,  as  he  kissed  mademoiselle's 
hand;  "and  if  I  had  not  seen  you 
again  before  Jeanne  Ragaud,  my 
happiness  would  make  me  crazy.  I 
can  only  say  that  you  are  the  most 
beautiful  and  graceful  woman  in  the 
world,  and  she  is  the  second." 

Poor  mademoiselle,  who  was  hump- 
backed and  anything  but  handsome, 
and,  besides,  nearly  thirty,  smiled 
nevertheless  at  this  insolent  speech, 
so  out  of  place  from  the  mouth  of 
her  notary's  son ;  so  true  is  it  that 
compliments  are  swallowed  as  easily 
as  ripe  strawberries,  no  matter  how 
false  they  may  be,  if  the  mind  is  not 
properly  balanced,  and  cannot  rise 
above  the  frivolity  and  nonsense 
heard  on  all  sides  in  this  world. 

While  the  carriage  rolled  away  to 
the  chiteau,  each  one  at  the  farm 
had  something  to  say,  and  Perdreau 
was  there,  also,  the  subject  of  conver- 
sation. 

"  He  is  a  very  pleasant  fellow," 
said  good  Ragaud,  "  not  at  all  proud, 
and  much  better-looking  than  when 
he  left  home.  He  must  have  stud- 
ied very  hard  in  Paris,  and  his  dear, 
good  father  will  have  a  worthy  suc- 
cessor." 

"  When  I  think,"  replied  Pierrette, 
"  how  readily  he  accepted  your  invi- 
tation to  supper,  never  raising  the 
slightest  difficulty,  that  proves  he 
has  a  good  heart." 

"  We  won't  know  what  to  say  to 
him,"  remarked  Jeannette,  "  he  is  so 
much  more  learned  than  we." 

"  Yes,  but  very  simple  with  it  all," 
said  Pierrette.  "I  will  not  be  the 
least  embarrassed.  I  am  sure  he  will 


The  Farm  of  M nicer  on. 


79 


like  to  talk  over  all  his  boyish  tricks 
and  adventures — how  he  stole  ap- 
ples from  Cotenfin's  garden,  and  how- 
he  would  keep  M.  le  Cure  waiting 
when  it  was  his  turn  to  be  altar-boy." 

"  He  was  always  full  of  fun,"  re- 
plied Ragaud,  "and  is  so  still;  but 
that  is  no  defect." 

"  Oh  !  certainly  not,"  cried  Jean- 
nette. 

"  For  what  evening  have  you  in- 
vited him  ?"  asked  Jean-Louis,  who 
had  not  yet  expressed  an  opinion. 

"Next  Sunday,"  said  Ragaud; 
"  that  will  not  take  us  from  our  work, 
and  we  can  bring  him  back  with  us  in 
the  wagon  after  Vespers." 

"  What  a  beautiful  dress  you  have 
on !"  said  Jeannet,  looking  at  his  sis- 
ter. 

"  Mademoiselle  gave  it  to  me," 
she  replied,  looking  down.  "  I  put 
it  on  to  receive  her;  but  I  will  not 
wear  it  again." 

"  Until  Sunday  ?"  asked  Jean- 
Louis. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Pierrette, "  Jean- 
nette  must  be  prettily  dressed  in 
honor  of  Isidore." 

Jean-Louis  said  nothing ;  he  walk- 
ed to  the  window  where  Solange  was 
sitting,  and  leaned  on  the  back  of  her 
chair,  apparently  absorbed  in  watch- 
ing her  embroider. 

"  Jeannet,"  said  Solange,  without 
raising  her  eyes,  "  what  do  you  think 
of  all  this  ?" 

"  It  makes  me  sad,"  he  replied. 

"  You  have  reason  to  feel  so,"  said 
she.  "  That  smooth-tongued  Isidore 
has  turned  all  their  heads.  Mademoi- 
selle is  even  more  carried  away  than 
the  others ;  and,  from  the  way  things 
are  going  on,  there  will  be  trouble 
before  long." 

Jean-Louis  sighed.  As  they  had 
spoken  in  a  low  tone,  and  the  Ra- 
gauds  were  conversing  with  Jeannette, 
their  little  conversation  had  not  been 
remarked. 


"  Will  you  go  home  with  us  after 
Mass  next  Sunday  ?"  continued  So- 
lange. "  Pierre  will  be  glad  to  see 
you,  and  Michou  has  promised  to 
dine  with  us  at  noon,  and  taste  our 
boiled  corn." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Jeannet,  "  I 
will  go  with  pleasure." 

This  was  on  Tuesday;  the  four 
following  days  Isidore  Perdreau 
came  constantly  to  Muiceron,  some- 
times with  mademoiselle,  sometimes 
alone,  and  was  most  cordially  re- 
ceived by  the  Ragauds,  and  Jean- 
nette also,  I  regret  to  say. 

If  you  are  of  my  opinion,  you  will 
allow  that  nothing  is  pleasanter  than 
to  listen  to  a  story  when  there  is 
only  question  of  good  people  and 
happy  events.  It  makes  our  hearts 
glad,  and  we  forget  for  a  little  while 
that  life  is  like  the  clouds  in  the  sky, 
streaked  with  white,  gray,  and  black, 
and  that  often  the  dark  clouds  over- 
shadow the  light ;  but  as  truth  must 
be  loved  above  all,  I  am  very  sorry 
to  tell  you  that  for  the  present  I 
have  nothing  good  to  relate.  You 
must  pardon  me,  then,  if  I  am  oblig- 
ed to  sadden  you  by  the  recital  of 
sinful  and  criminal  acts,  and  believe 
me  that,  if  it  is  painful  for  you  to 
have  to  listen  to  them,  it  is  not  less 
so  for  me  to  recount  them  to  you. 

When  mademoiselle  once  became 
possessed  with  the  charming  idea  of 
marrying  her  god-daughter  to  Isidore, 
never  was  the  caprice  of  a  woman 
without  occupation  more  obstinately 
pursued  .and  more  firmly  fastened  in 
the  very  bottom  of  her  brain.  Very 
true,  she  only  sought  the  happiness 
of  her  beloved  Jeannette,  and  thought 
she  had  thereby  secured  it.  She  in- 
cessantly repeated  to  Dame  Berthe 
that  it  would  be  the  greatest  misfor 
tune  if  Jeannette  should  marry  a 
peasant,  that  after  all  the  care  she  had 
lavished  upon  her  for  ten  years 
she  could  not  bear  to  see  her  milking 


8o 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


the  cows,  and  hardening  her  hands 
by  washing  and  working  in  the 
fields.  On  the  other  side,  she  would 
not  risk  the  happiness  of  her  pet  by 
marrying  her  to  a  man  she  did  not 
know  ;  consequently,  she  should  mar- 
ry some  one  in  the  neighborhood ; 
and  Isidore  was  the  only  person 
around  who  united  all  the  requisites 
desired  by  mademoiselle,  as  the 
other  young  men  were  only  of  the 
laboring  class.  She  communicated 
her  idea  to  M.  le  Marquis,  who,  with 
out  making  any  objections,  thought 
the  project  might  be  attempted. 
He  himself  went  to  see  M.  Perdreau, 
the  father,  and  announced  to  him 
his  wishes  upon  the  subject,  and  Isi- 
dore was  immediately  recalled  from 
Paris. 

Old  Perdreau,  the  notary,  passed 
for  one  of  the  most  honest  men  in 
his  profession.  For  thirty  years 
M.  le  Marquis  had  closed  his  eyes 
and  left  him  the  entire  control  of  his 
affairs,  which,  truth  to  say,  were  not 
very  complicated,  as  the  principal 
wealth  of  the  chateau  consisted  of 
fertile  land,  woods,  meadows,  and 
vineyards,  the  revenues  of  which  he 
received  and  controlled. 

More  than  that — and  this  was  the 
worst — our  master  made  him  the 
special  confidant  of  his  most  secret 
expeditions.  Thus,  when  he  left 
home  on  one  of  his  mysterious  jour- 
neys, where  he  expected  to  encounter 
great  dangers,  Perdreau  alone  knew 
exactly  the  hiding-places  of  M.  le 
Marquis,  the  plots  that  were  there 
concocted — in  a  word,  the  great  con- 
spiracies that  monsieur  and  his 
friends  thought  legitimate  in  their 
souls  and  consciences,  although  they 
could  scarcely  be  called  such  in  my 
opinion. 

This  was  very  astonishing,  it  must 
be  acknowledged,  as  it  bound  M.  le 
Marquis  hand  and  foot  to  his  notary. 
But  what  could  you  expect  ?  My 


late  beloved  father,  who  had  been 
an  enthusiastic  Chouan,  contrary  to 
most  of  the  people  «of  his  province, 
who  did  not  care  a  fig  for  all  that 
fuss,  said  that  perfectly  honest  souls 
can  never  think  ill  of  any  one,  and 
that  is  the  reason  they  are  often 
duped  and  vilified  without  their  even 
dreaming  of  it. 

For  it  is  time  to  let  you  know  that 
Master  Perdreau,  the  notary  of  Val- 
Saint,  was,  and  had  been  always,  the 
most  cunning  rascal,  not  only  of  our 
neighborhood,  but  of  the  whole 
country  for  twenty  leagues  around, 
including  all  the  towns,  little  and  big. 
His  only  idea  was  to  make  money, 
and  for  that  he  would  have  sold  his 
master,  his  conscience — in  case  he 
had  one — his  best  friends,  his  soul, 
and  even  the  sacred  vessels  of  the 
tabernacle.  In  the  way  of  hypocrisy, 
deep  wickedness,  theft,  stinginess, 
and  falsehood  he  had  nothing  to 
fear  from  any  rival,  saving,  perhaps, 
his  only  son,  Isidore,  who  was  rapid- 
ly learning  to  play  the  knave,  and 
promised,  with  the  help  of  the  devil, 
to  become  very  soon  the  true  pendant 
of  monsieur,  his  father. 

In  order  to  perfect  this  shameful 
education,  Isidore  had  finished  his 
studies  in  Paris,  and  Master  Perdreau, 
I  need  not  say,  had  chosen  a  college 
for  him  where  he  would  neither 
learn  virtue  nor  the  fear  of  God. 

For  the  consolation  of  good  peo- 
ple, evil-doers  seldom  profit  by  their 
crimes.  Thus,  at  this  period  of  our 
story,  Master  Perdreau  was  on  the 
eve  of  reaping  the  fruits  of  thirty 
years  of  criminal  conduct,  and  it  was 
precisely  the  opposite  of  what  he  had 
sought  all  his  life  that  was  about  to 
happen  to  him. 

Holding  in  his  hand  the  secrets 
of  M.  le  Marquis,  he  had  used  them 
to  obtain  large  sums  from  the  poor 
deluded  man,  under  the  pretence  of 
advancing  his  interests;  and  with 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


81 


this  money,  added  to  other  thefts,  he 
had  first  supplied  his  son  with  means 
for  continuing  his  dissipation  in  Paris, 
and  then  speculated  so  often  and  so 
well  in  a  place  not  very  Christian — 
called,  I  believe,  the  Exchange — that 
he  had  nothing  left  he  could  call  his 
own  but  his  little  country  office  and 
debts  enough  to  drive  him  crazy. 
Judge,  then,  if  he  thought  himself 
favored  by  fortune  when  M.  le  Mar- 
quis came  and  proposed  Jeanne  Ra- 
gaud  to  him  for  daughter-in-law. 
Never  did  a  drowning  man  grasp 
more  eagerly  at  the  plank  held  out 
to  keep  him  from  death.  The  girl's 
fortune  was  well  known.  Muiceron 
and  the  adjoining  property  was  worth 
at  least  one  hundred  thousand  francs  ; 
and  to  rightly  estimate  the  money 
good  Ragaud  laid  by  every  year,  one 
would  have  to  count  on  his  fingers  a 
tolerably  long  while.  Further,  Jean- 
nette  was  an  extremely  pretty  girl, 
brought  up  as  a  young  lady,  and 
there  was  no  doubt  her  godmother 
would  leave  her — perhaps  might  give 
her  at  her  marriage — a  very  hand- 
some present.  All  being  thus  arrang- 
ed to  the  satisfaction  of  this  scoun- 
drel of  a  notary,  he  had  only  to  rub 
his  hands  and  chuckle  at  the  idea 
of  having  fooled  everybody  during 
his  whole  life. 

I  will  not  sadden  you  by  relating 
what  was  the  conversation  on  the 
subject  between  father  and  son  on 
the  evening  of  Isidore's  arrival  in  the 
village,  and  the  means  which  they 
proposed  to  accomplish  their  ends, 
which  was  to  wheedle  old  Ragaud 
into  giving  up  all  the  property  to  his 
daughter,  only  reserving  for  himself 
a  modest  annuity.  As  for  the  shame- 
ful way  in  which  these  arrant  swin- 
dlers held  up  to  ridicule  M.  le  Mar- 
quis, whom  they  called  "  old  fool,"  and 
mademoiselle,  whom  they  stigmatiz- 
ed as  the  "  yellow  dwarf,"  on  ac- 
count of  her  crooked  figure,  it  would 


make  me  sick  to  relate  all  they 
said.  However,  in  saying  that  Per- 
dreau  deceived  everybody,  I  have 
rather  exaggerated,  for  two  men  in  the 
village  saw  through  his  villany,  and, 
thank  God,  they  were  two  of  the 
most  worthy — namely,  Jacques  Mi- 
chou,  and  our  dear,  holy  cure.  The 
first,  who,  as  you  know,  had  never 
been  drawn  into  the  promising  con- 
spiracies of  his  good  lord,  had  always 
suspected  Perdreau  for  catching  so 
readily  at  the  alluring  bait.  He  had 
watched  him  closely,  and,  to  fully  un- 
ravel his  plans,  pretended  to  become 
very  intimate  with  M.  Riponin,  the 
steward,  who  was  scarcely  any  better 
than  the  notary,  but  who  owed  Per- 
dreau a  grudge  for  his  having  duped 
him  in  some  knavish  trick  they  un- 
dertook together.  Since  then,  Mi- 
chou,  who  knew  how  to  play  one 
against  the  other,  in  order  to  serve  his 
master,  made  one  thief  steal  from  the 
other,  and  fully  succeeded  in  his  de- 
sign. As  for  our  curt,  he  knew  both 
the  good  and  the  bad,  and  looked 
out  for  a  squall.  The  great  misfor- 
tune was  that  mademoiselle  was  so 
fully  possessed  with  her  idea  of  the 
marriage  she  neglected  to  consult 
him  and  ask  his  advice. 

Alas  !  I  am  bound  now  to  avow 
that  poor  little  Jeannette,  whose  sia 
was  more  of  the  head  than  the  heart,, 
allowed  herself  to  be  very  quickly 
caught  in  the  net  held  out  to  her.. 
Never  did  a  giddy,  inconstant  little 
fish  make  the  leap  as  willingly  as- 
she.  In  a  village  marriages  are 
soon  arranged.  The  parties  are  sup- 
posed to  be  well  acquainted.  At  the 
first  proposition,  when  the  interests* 
agree,  they  have  only  to  say  ye§ ;. 
and  so  it  happened  no  later  than  the 
second  Sunday  after  the  arrival  o£ 
Isidore  Perdreau. 

Every  one  assisted  to  hurry  up  the 
affair  with  lightning  speed.  Jeanne 
solemnly  believed  all  the  nonsense 


82 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


poured  into  her  ear  by  Isidore, 
thought  herself  adored  by  him,  and 
regarded  him  as  infinitely  superior  to 
all  other  men  in  style,  manner,  and 
fine  speeches.  Ragaud  and  Pier- 
rette were  puffed  up  with  pride ;  mon- 
sieur and  mademoiselle  did  not  con- 
ceal their  satisfaction  ;  and  the  people 
around,  with  the  sole  exception  of 
Michou,  who  was  looked  upon  as  a 
cross,  peevish  old  fellow,  hastened  to 
congratulate  the  fortunate  couple. 

Sickness  was  no  longer  thought  of. 
Jeannette,  happy  and  triumphant, 
rapidly  regained  her  strength.  The 
poor  silly  child  only  thought  of  her 
new  dresses  and  of  the  promised 
visit  to  Paris  after  her  marriage,  the 
delights  of  which  Isidore  dwelt  upon 
in  glowing  terms,  which  would  have 
turned  a  stronger  head  than  hers. 
Never,  in  fact,  did  a  family  rush  blind- 
folded and  more  willingly  into  a  bot- 
tomless abyss. 

However,  there  was  one  person  at 
Muiceron  whose  presence  tormented 
M.  Isidore,  and  whom  he  had  hated 
from  the  first  day.  You  can  guess 
it  was  Jean-Louis.  Each  time  that 
he  entered  the  house  and  saw  that 
tall  figure,  the  face  pale  and  serious, 
silently  seated  in  a  corner,  the  only 
one  who  did  not  receive  him  with 
joy,  his  eyes  flashed  with  anger,  and 
he  would  turn  his  back  on  him  in 
the  most  contemptuous  manner — 
something  which  the  Ragauds  would 
certainly  have  resented  in  any  one 
else;  but  the  poor  people  were  so 
bewitched  they  were  unjust  enough 
to  be  angry  with  Jean-Louis,  and 
even  to  fancy  that  he  was  jealous, 
whilst  he  was  only  very  properly 
grieved  at  what  had  happened. 

His  life  had  become  very  different. 
No  more  friendly  talks,  no  more 
watching  for  him,  no  more  tender 
caresses;  not  that  they  had  ceased  to 
love  him,  but  there  was  no  time  for 
these  innocent  family  recreations, 


and,  besides,  it  would  have  embarrass- 
ed them  to  make  a  display  of  affec- 
tion before  M.  Isidore,  who  thought 
all  such  country  performances  be- 
neath him.  Poor  Jean-Louis,  who 
for  so  many  years  had  always  enter- 
ed Muiceron  with  joyful  heart  at  the 
thought  of  embracing  his  dear  moth- 
er, now  came  in  with  sad  and  trou- 
bled brow.  Pierrette  always  appeared 
busy  and  worried.  She  would  rapidly 
say  "  good-evening  "  in  reply  to  Jean- 
net's  gentle  salutation  whispered  in  her 
ear,  and  immediately  go  on  with  her 
work  ;  for  there  were  always  sauce- 
pans to  overlook,  or  orders  to  give  to 
Marion,  who  was  not  the  least  be- 
wildered of  them  all.  As  for  Jean- 
nette, the  cold  manner  in  which  Jean- 
Louis  always  treated  her  intended, 
and,  above  all,  the  wicked  insinuations 
Isidore  made  against  him,  aroused 
her  displeasure  ;  and,  if  Pierrette  was 
always  absorbed  in  her  household 
cares,  Jeannette  pained  him  still  more 
by  her  frigid  manner,  bordering  on 
sullenness. 

Jean-Louis  felt  all  this  most  keenly. 
He  was  not  a  person  who  liked  to 
complain  or  ask  explanations;  be- 
sides, what  would  he  have  gained  by 
it  ?  He  knew  too  well  the  reason  of 
their  conduct  to  be  obliged  to  ask 
why.  In  a  moment  he  could  have 
changed  all  by  appearing  as  delight- 
ed as  the  rest ;  but  that  was  precisely 
what  he  would  not  do.  In  truth, 
when  we  see  those  we  love  at  the 
point  of  drowning,  how  can  we  ap- 
plaud ? 

Still  worse  was  it  when  the  family 
circle  of  Muiceron  was  increased  by 
the  presence  of  old  Perdreau,  who 
nearly  every  evening  showed  his 
weasel-face  at  the  table,  and  drank 
with  great  friendliness  to  the  health 
of  the  good  people  whose  ruin  he 
was  mercilessly  plotting.  Jean-Louis 
two  or  three  times  bore  it  patiently ; 
then  he  fe'lt  he  could  take  himself  off, 


•The  Farm  of  Mincer  on. 


and  be  missed  by  no  one;  so  one 
fine  evening  he  mustered  up  courage, 
left  the  farm  before  supper,  and  went 
off  to  the  house  of  his  friends,  the 
Luguets, 

As  usual,  he  found  the  little  house 
quiet,  clean,  and  shining  with  neat- 
ness. Pierre  was  reading  aloud  the 
life  of  a  saint,  while  Solange,  always 
employed,  was  sewing  by  the  lamp. 
Their  old  parents  and  Jacques  Mi- 
chou,  seated  around  the  fire,  listened 
in  silence,  and  the  dog  lay  snoring 
on  the  warm  hearth-stones.  Jeannet 
on  entering  motioned  with  his  hand 
for  them  not  to  stir,  and  seated  him- 
self by  Solange,  who  nodded  to  him. 

"  My  friends,"  said  Jean-Louis 
when  the  reading  was  over,  "  I  have 
come  to  ask  for  my  supper  this  eve- 
ning, and  perhaps  I  may  again  to- 
morrow." 

"  Whenever  you  please,  my  boy," 
said  Luguet. 

"  Things  don't  please  you  at  Mui- 
ceron,  eh  ?"  asked  Michou. 

"  Ah !"  replied  Jeannet  sadly, 
"perhaps  I  am  unjust  and  wrong; 
but  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  help  in 
that  marriage." 

"  What  difference  does  it  make  to 
you  ?"  said  Pierre ;  "  when  people  are 
possessed,  they  will  do  as  they  please. 
You  are  too  sensitive,  Jean  ;  after  all, 
you  will  not  have  to  marry  Per- 
dreau." 

"  I  am  so  sure,"  replied  Jeannet, 
"  that  poor  child  will  be  unhappy." 

"  No  one  forces  her !"  said  Pierre. 
"  She  wishes  it,  so  do  the  Ragauds, 
so  do  M.  le  Marquis  and  mademoi- 
selle. All  agree  ;  well,  then,  let  them 
run  the  risk  !" 

"Be  still,  Pierre,"  said  Solange; 
"  you  speak  as  though  you  had  no 
heart.  Remember  that  Jeannette  has 
been  from  her  infancy  like  a  sister  to 
Jean-Louis;  would  you  like  to  see 
me  marry  Isidore  ?" 

'-•Ah I"    cried    Pierre,   "I   would 


sooner  cut  his  throat;  but  you  are 
not  like  Jeannette." 

"  Don't  say  anything  against  her," 
replied  good  Solange  with  warmth. 
"  She  is  the  best  girl  in  the  world ; 
and  because  her  head  is  rather  light 
and  giddy,  that  does  not  prevent  her 
having  an  excellent  heart.  I  under- 
stand Jean-Louis'  feelings,  for,  cer- 
tainly, Isidore  Perdreau's  reputation 
is  not  very  good.  But  who  knows  ? 
Perhaps,  when  he  is  married  and  set- 
tles down,  he  may  make  Jeannette  a 
good  husband." 

"  Thank  you,  Solange,"  said  Jean- 
net,  taking  her  hand,  "  it  is  so  kind  in 
you  to  defend  her;  it  makes  me  feel 
happy.  If  I  could  only  show  a  little 
friendship  for  Isidore,  I  think  I  would 
be  less  miserable;  but  I  cannot  con- 
quer myself;  I  cannot  change.  .  ,  " 

"  It  is  not  worth  while  trying  to  do 
it,  boy,"  said  Michou;  "  when  we  see 
misfortune  coming,  and  cannot  pre- 
vent it,  the  best  we  can  do  is  to  keep 
at  a  distance,  and  not  meddle." 

"  Then,  M.  Michou,  you  really 
think  trouble  will  come  of  it  ?"  asked 
Jeannet. 

"  Yes,  my  son,  such  overwhelm- 
ing trouble,"  answered  the  game- 
keeper, "  that  until  the  day  I  see 
them  standing  before  the  mayor 
and  the  cur^  I  shall  hope  the  good 
God  will  work  a  miracle  to  prevent 
it.  The  Ragauds  at  present  are  like 
men  who  have  taken  too  much 
brandy — that  is  to  say,  they  are  as 
tipsy  as  a  beggar  after  the  vintage. 
They  can  neither  hear  nor  under- 
stand. But  mind  what  I  say ;  you 
others  who  are  in  your  senses.  I  will 
tell  you  what  sort  of  men  they  are, 
that  infamous  notary  and  his  rascal 
of  a  son,  and  then  you  will  see 
whether  Jean-Louis  is  right  or  wrong." 

Thereupon  he  recounted  to  his 
astonished  friends  what  we  already 
know,  but  went  into  greater  details 
than  I  have  thought  necessary.  » 


84 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


"  We  can  only  pray  to  God,"  said 
Solange  when  he  had  ended.  "  Alas  ! 
poor  Jeannette,  what  will  become  of 
her  ?  M.  Michou,  you  must  warn  the 
Ragauds." 

"  You  think  that  would  be  easy  ?" 
said  Michou.  "  In  the  first  place, 
they  would  not  believe  me.  Monsieur 
and  mademoiselle  would  be  indig- 
nant. The  Perdreaux  are  too  thorough 
scoundrels  not  to  have  at  hand  a 
crowd  of  proofs  and  protestations 
which  would  make  them  appear  as 
white  as  snow.  Every  one  is  against 
us,  up  to  that  obstinate  Jeannette, 
who  is  dead  in  love  with  Isidore,  so 
they  say — hare-brained  little  fool !" 

"  It  is  only  too  true,"  said  Jeannet, 
much  overcome. 

"  As  for  you,"  resumed  Michou, 
"  in  consequence  of  your  peculiar 
position,  you  can  say  less  than  any 
one  else ;  but  if  I  were  in  your  place, 
I  would  not  remain  an  indifferent 
spectator  of  such  a  sad  affair." 

"  What  can  I  do  ?"  said  Jeannet. 
"  How  can  I  abandon  them  ?" 

"  Come  and  stay  with  me  a  while. 
L  am  clearing  a  part  of  the  wood; 
you  can  overlook  the  workmen,  and 
we  can  manage  to  keep  house  with 
Barbette,  if  you  are  not  very  difficult 
to  please  about  the  cooking." 

"  Oh !  I  would  like  it  very  much,  M. 
Michou,  and  you  will  do  me  a  great 
favor.  But  I  must  ask  my  father 
about  it;  will  you  see  him,  and  get 
his  consent  ?" 

"  To-morrow  we  will  have  it  all 
arranged,"  replied  Michou. 

"  Jeannet,"  said  Solange,  "  the 
wood  of  Val-Saint  is  not  very  far 
from  here ;  when  your  day's  work  is 
over,  you  must  remember  there  is 
always  a  place  at  our  table  for  a 
friend.  Come,  and  we  will  console 
you.  Don't  worry  yourself  too  much 
about  all  this  affair ;  often  the  storm 
is  so  terrible  we  expect  every  mo- 
ment to  be  struck  with  lightning,  and 


then  the  clouds  break,  the  sky  clears, 
and,  after  all  the  fright,  nobody  is 
killed." 

Jean-Louis,  notwithstanding  his 
sadness,  could  not  help  smiling  at 
these  hopeful  words,  spoken  by  this 
good  and  beautiful  girl,  so  reason- 
able in  all  things,  and  still  always  so 
cheerful.  He  pressed  her  hand,  and 
helped  her  set  the  table  for  supper. 
Michou,  reflecting  on  these  words  of 
Solange,  wisely  remarked  that  the 
future  being  in  the  hands  of  God, 
who  always  concealed  it  from  us 
through  mercy  or  to  grant  us  agree- 
able surprises,  it  was  unbecoming  in 
us  to  torment  ourselves  too  much 
about  it. 

At  which  speech  good  Pierre,  who 
never  liked  trouble,  loudly  applaud- 
ed ;  and  then,  the  repast  being  served, 
all  sat  down  to  table,  and,  while  eating, 
conversed  on  various  topics  not  the 
least  connected  with  Muiceron. 

xv. 

According  to  his  promise,  Mi- 
chou the  next  day  paid  an  early 
visit  to  the  Ragauds,  accompanied 
by  his  old  blackened  pipe,  which  he 
always  kept  firmly  between  his  teeth 
when  he  feared  he  might  become 
impatient  or  angry  in  conversation. 
He  said  that,  without  it,  the  big 
words  would  rush  out  of  his  mouth 
before  he  had  time  to  prevent  them ; 
but  that,  with  it,  while  he  smoked, 
shook  it,  or  relighted  it,  he  regained 
his  composure,  and  gathered  time  to 
arrange  his  ideas.  And  never  was 
puffer — as  he  called  his  pipe — more 
necessary  than  on  this  visit  to  Mui- 
ceron. Seeing  his  friends  on  the 
point  of  throwing  themselves  into 
the  enemy's  clutches,  and  knowing 
that  remonstrance  would  avail  no- 
thing, he  felt  that  anger  and  sorrow 
might  carry  him  to  any  extremity — 
in  words  only,  let  it  be  well  under- 
stood. 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


«5 


He  found  Ragaud  seated  before 
the  door,  shelling  gray  peas,  while 
Pierrette  was  washing  dishes;  for, 
since  she  had  commenced  to  feed 
the  Perdreaux,  all  the  crockery  was 
in  use,  and  they  went  to  bed  so  late 
half  the  work  remained  for  next  day. 

"  I  wish  you  good-morning,"  said 
Michou  to  his  friends.  "  I  see  you 
are  very  busy,  but  I  have  only  come 
to  remain  a  few  moments." 

"  Come  in,"  said  Pierrette. 

"  No,  I  prefer  to  remain  outside," 
replied  Michou.  "  I  like  the  fresh  air. 
Ragaud,  do  you  feel  inclined  to  do 
me  a  favor  ?" 

"  What  a  question  !"  said  the  good 
man.  "  I  am  always  ready  for  that, 
my  old  friend." 

"  Thank  you,  it  is  not  a  very  great 
request.  Can  you  spare  me  Jean- 
Louis  for  a  fortnight  ?  I  have  twenty 
men  at  work  in  the  wood  of  Mon- 
treux,  and  no  one  to  oversee  them. 
The  young  fellow  can  help  me  a 
great  deal." 

"  Very  willingly,"  said  Ragaud ; 
"  the  hemp  is  nearly  ready,  and  I  do 
not  want  Jeannet  just  now." 

"  He  will  take  his  meals  with  me," 
replied  Michou,  "  and  sleep  at  my 
house  the  nights.  He  will  be  oblig- 
ed to  work  late;  so  you  need  not  be 
uneasy  if  he  does  not  return  home 
sometimes." 

"  Agreed,"  said  Ragaud.  "  Do 
you  employ  the  wood-cutters  of  the 
neighborhood  ?" 

"  Deuce  take  it,  no !"  replied 
Michou.  "  I  hire  them  right  and 
left,  and  truly  they  are  the  stupidest 
asses.  The  way  they  talk  makes 
one's  hair  stand  up  under  his  cap." 

"  Bah  !  what  do  they  say  ?" 

"  Devilish  nonsense !  Why,  they 
talk  of  nothing  but  revolution,  over- 
throwing everything  and  everybody, 
massacring  the  nobility,  and  theft. 
1  remember  how  my  father,  long  ago, 
told  me  abouc  the  people  before  the 


Reign  of  Terror,  and  I  imagine  these 
men  must  be  something  of  the  same 
stamp.  Some  of  them  disappear  some- 
times ;  when  they  return,  they  speak 
in  whispers,  and,  when  I  order  them  to 
go  to  work,  you  should  see  the  way 
they  glare  at  me.  It  is  very  well  I 
don't  know  what  fear  means ;  but,  re- 
inforced by  Jeannet,  all  will  go  well." 

"  Take  him  right  away,"  said  Ra- 
gaud ;  "  and  if  he  is  not  enough,  well, 
send  for  me;  I  will  give  you  a  help- 
ing hand." 

"  You  ?"  replied  Michou,  who 
commenced  to  mumble  over  his  pipe. 
"  You  are  too  busy  in  this  house  with 
the  wedding." 

"  Oh  !  it  is  not  going  to  be  to-mor- 
row," said  Ragaud  ;  "  the  day  of  be- 
trothal is  not  yet  fixed.  I  leave  all 
that  to  good  M.  Perdreau.  He  is  tak- 
ing a  great  deal  of  trouble  ;  and  I  am 
glad  he  is,  for  I  know  precious  little 
about  legal  matters." 

"  So,  then,  you  don't  bother  your- 
self with  anything  ? — very  pretty  con- 
duct on  your  part." 

"  What  should  I  do  ?"  asked  Ra- 
gaud innocently.  "  Each  one  has 
his  part  to  play.  M.  Perdreau  was 
brought  up  among  books,  and  I  at 
the  plough.  When  he  has  the  pa- 
pers ready,  he  will  tell  me  where  to 
sign  my  name." 

"  And  you  will  sign  it  ?" 

"  Undoubtedly,  after  he  has  read 
them  to  me." 

"  All  very  nice,"  said  Michou.  "  If 
I  were  in  your  place,  I  would  sign 
without  reading  them ;  it  would  be 
more  stupid.  .  .  ." 

"  What  do  you  say  ?"  asked  Ra- 
gaud. 

"  I  say,"  replied  Jacques,  "  if  you 
will  allow  me  to  offer  a  word  of  ad- 
vice, you  will  not  only  make  them 
read  your  daughter's  marriage  con- 
tract to  you,  but  also  have  it  read 
to  others — to  M.  le  Cure,  for  example ; 
he  is  learned  also — that  he  is." 


86 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


"  That  would  be  insulting  to  M. 
Perdreau." 

"  Not  at  all.  Two  such  learned 
men  would  soon  understand  each 
other.  After  all,  you  know,  you 
must  do  as  you  think  best.  Good- 
morning  !  Thank  you  for  Jean-Louis  ; 
send  him  to  me  quickly.  I  must  hur- 
ry off  to  my  rascally  wood-cutters  in 
the  wood  of  Montreux." 

And  the  game-keeper  turned  his 
back  without  waiting  for  an  answer, 
purring  away  at  his  pipe  so  tremen- 
dously his  cap  was  in  a  cloud  of 
smoke. 

Ragaud  continued  to  shell  his  peas, 
but  it  was  easy  to  see  he  felt  rather 
anxious.  Nevertheless,  when  he  had 
ended  his  work,  he  re-entered  the 
house  without  showing  any  discom- 
posure. 

Jean-Louis  left  home  that  morning 
to  spend  a  fortnight  with  Michou, 
depressed  in  spirits,  but  still  hoping 
the  best.  On  passing  through  Val- 
Saint,  he  stopped  at  M.  le  Cure's, 
who  confirmed  all  that  Michou  had 
said  about  the  Perdreaux.  That 
dear,  good  man  was  much  distressed, 
but'could  not  think  of  any  remedy  for 
the  evil ;  but  he  promised  Jeannet  to 
say  Mass  for  the  family,  and  highly 
approved  of  his  leaving  Muiceron  for 
a  time. 

Meanwhile,  the  Ragauds  acted  as 
though  they  were  bewitched.  Dur- 
ing the  first  week  after  the  depar- 
ture of  Jeannet,  his  name  was  scarce- 
ly mentioned,  even  by  Pierrette. 
They  appeared  to  have  lost  all  recol- 
lection of  the  services  the  excellent- 
hearted  boy  had  rendered  his  adopt- 
ed parents.  No  one  thought  of  him 
or  noticed  him  when  he  returned 
sometimes  late  at  night  from  his  hard 
day's  work;  and,  had  it  not  been 
for  the  good  Luguets,  poor  Jean- 
Louis  would  have  been  as  isolated  in 
the  world  as  if  he  had  been  brought 
up  in  a  foundling  asylum  —his  first 


destination.  But  God  did  not  aban- 
don him,  and,  although  always  very 
sad,  he  did  not  lose  courage.  Every 
evening,  whether  he  returned  or  not 
to  Muiceron,  he  visited  his  friends, 
and  there,  with  Pierre  and  Solange,  he 
recovered  his  good-humor,  or  at  least 
maintained  his  gentleness  and  resig- 
nation. His  friendship  for  Solange 
increased  day  by  day.  He  suspect- 
ed nothing,  nor  she  either;  for  al- 
though very  friendly  and  intimate, 
they  only  felt  toward  each  other  like 
brother  and  sister.  However,  all 
was  known  in  the  village — better, 
perhaps,  than  elsewhere — and  the 
gossips  commenced  to  say  that  the 
devout  Solange  jumped  at  marriage 
as  quickly  as  any  other  girl.  Several 
of  the  girls  even  commenced  to  tease 
her  about  him ;  all  of  which  she  re- 
ceived gently,  and  smiled  without 
being  displeased,  contenting  herself 
with  the  remark  that,  after  all,  she 
might  choose  worse;  and  her  work 
was  continued  more  faithfully  than 
ever. 

One  evening,  when  Pierre  and  his 
parents  remained  rather  late  at  the 
fair  at  Andrieux,  which  is  three  good 
leagues  from  Ordonniers,  and  which 
is  only  reached  by  roads  very  diffi- 
cult to  travel  in  the  bad  season, 
Jeannet,  as  usual,  went  to  the  Lu- 
guets, and  was  surprised  to  find  So- 
lange all  alone.  She  blushed  slightly 
when  she  saw  him,  not  from  embar- 
rassment, however,  but  only,  I  imag- 
ine, because  she  remembered  the  re- 
ports that  were  circulating  in  the  vil- 
lage. Jeannet  took  his  usual  seat, 
which  was  always  near  hers.  The 
month  of  November  was  nearly 
ended,  and  that  morning  Michou 
had  told  Jean-Louis  that  Jeannette's 
betrothal  would  take  place  a  little 
before  Christmas,  and  the  marriage 
soon  after.  The  poor  fellow  was 
overwhelmed  with  sorrow ;  he  poured 
all  his  grief  into  Solan ge's  ear,  and 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


so  great  was  his  confidence  in  her 
that  he  allowed  himself  to  weep  in 
her  pre'sence. 

"  You  have  lost  your  courage  and 
become  thoroughly  hopeless,"  said 
Solange  gently.  "  I  don't  like  that  in 

man,  still  less  in  a  Christian." 

"  How  can  I  help  it  ?  Am  I  made 
of  stone  ?"  replied  Jeannet,  his  head 
buried  in  his  hands.  "  Alas !  aias ! 
Solange,  I  believed  your  words.  I 
thought  that  God  would  have  mercy 
on  us,  and  that  this  unfortunate  mar- 
riage would  not  take  place." 

"I  don't  see  that  it  has  yet,"  re- 
plied Solange.  "  In  the  first  place, 
they  only  speak  of  signing  the  con- 
tract a  month  from  now,  and  up  to 
then  the  mill  will  turn  more  than 
once;  and,  after  all,  does  not  God 
know  better  than  we  what  is  good 
for  us,  poor  blind  things  that  we 
are  ?" 

"  That  is  true ;  but  to  see  Jean- 
nette  the  wife  of  that  man,  without 
faith  or  fear  of  God  or  law;  to  see 
my  old  father  and  dear,  good  mother 
reduced  to  want ;  to  be  obliged  to 
leave  the  country,  and  never  see 
Muiceron  again!  For  think,  So- 
lange, that  Jeannette,  when  she  signs 
her  marriage  contract,  will  know  that 
I  am  not  her  brother !  I  will  not 
wait  to  be  told  that  my  place  is  out- 
side of  the  house.  God  knows  I  have 
worked  for  my  parents,  and  their 
tenderness  never  humiliated  me,  but 
to  receive  a  benefit  from  Isidore — 
no,  never !"  cried  Jean-Louis,  raising 
his  eyes  that  flashed  with  honest  pride. 

"  You  are  right  in  that,"  said  So- 
lange quietly ;  "  but  listen  a  moment, 
.  .  .  and  first  sit  down  there,"  she 
added,  gently  placing  her  hand  on 
his  arm.  "  Come  to  your  senses. 
There,  now,  can  you  yet  listen  pa- 
tiently to  me  ?" 

"  Go  on,"  said  Jean-Louis  obedi- 
ently ;  "  you  need  not  talk  long  to 
calm  me." 


"  Weil,"  resumed  Solange,  resting 
her  elDow  on  the  table  in  such  a 
manner  that  her  sweet  face  nearly 
touched  Jeannet's  shoulder,  "  I  will 
repeat  again  that  the  story  is  not  yet 
1  ended;  but  as  this  good  reason  is 
not  weighty  enough  for  your  excited 
brain,  I  beg  you  will  tell  me  why 
you  think  Jeannette  will  despise  you 
when  she  will  learn  that  you  are  not 
her  brother." 

"  But  how  can  you  expect  it  to  be 
otherwise,  my  dear  friend  ?  Is  it  not 
against  me  that  I  seem  to  be  in- 
stalled in  her  house  for  life?  that  I 
have  had  half  the  hearts  of  her  pa- 
rents ?  Do  you  think  that  Isidore, 
who  detests  me,  will  not  tell  a  thou- 
sand falsehoods  to  prejudice  hei 
against  me  ?  Ah  !  Solange,  I  have 
suffered  terribly  during  the  last 
month;  but  to  see  Jeannette  regard 
me  as  an  intruder ;  to  have  her  crush 
me  with  her  scorn,  and  make  me  feel 
that  I  am  a  foundling,  picked  up 
from  the  gutter — it  is  beyond  all  hu- 
man strength,  and  the  good  God 
will  not  compel  me  to  endure  such 
agony.  I  will  not  expose  myself  to 
such  a  trial." 

"  But  what  can  you  do  ?  You 
cannot  get  work  in  the  country  with- 
out running  the  risk  of  meeting  her 
at  every  turn." 

"  I  will  manage  it,"  said  Jean- 
Louis.  "  France  is  a  kind  mother, 
Solange,  and  has  never  refused  food 
to  one  of  her  sons,  even  though  he 
had  no  name  but  the  one  given  in 
baptism.  I  know  that  my  dear  fa- 
ther intended  to  procure  a  substitute 
for  me ;  but,  in  the  present  situation,  I 
can  no  longer  accept  a  cent  of  Jean- 
nette's  inheritance,  which  will  one  day 
be  Isidore's." 

"  Good,"  said  Solange.  "  But  wait 
another  moment.  All  this  is  still  in  the 
future,  since  you  can  only  be  drawn 
next  year;  so  put  that  aside.  I 
will  only  say  that  you  have  spoken 


88 


The  Farm  of  M nicer  on. 


like  a  good-hearted  fellow,  for  which 
I  don't  compliment  you,  as  I  knew 
you  were  that  before.  But,  to  return 
to  what  we  were  speaking  of,  why  do 
you  think  you  will  be  scorned  by 
Jeannette  ?  Come,  now,  tell  me  all. 
You  love  the  little  thing  ?  and  .  .  . 
more  than  a  brother  loves  a  sister  ?" 

"  Ah  !"  cried  Jeannet,  hiding  his 
face,  which  he  felt  crimsoning,  like  a 
young  girl  surprised,  "  you  drag  the 
last  secret  from  my  heart.  Yes,  I 
love  her,  I  love  her  to  madness,  and 
that  adds  to  the  bitterness  of  my  de- 
spair. May  God  pardon  me !  I  have 
already  confessed  it,  but  with  my 
great  sorrow  is  mingled  a  wicked 
sentiment.  Solange!  I  am  jealous; 
I  know  it  well.  What  can  you  ex- 
pect ?  I  was  so  before  I  knew  it, 
and  I  cannot  drive  it  from  me.  Did 
I  ever  feel  that  she  was  not  my  sis- 
ter ?  No,  not  once  until  the  day 
that  there  was  question  of  her  mar- 
riage ;  and  yet,"  added  he  clasping 
his  hands,  "  God,  who  hears  me, 
knows  that  if  she  had  chosen  one 
worthy  of  her,  I  would  have  had  the 
strength  to  conquer  it  for  the  sake 
of  tier  happiness.  But  so  many  mis- 
fortunes have  made  me  what  I  am, 
and — what  I  only  avow  to  you — in- 
capable of  surmounting  my  je'alousy 
and  dislike." 

While  he  spoke  thus,  beautiful 
Solange  smiled,  not  like  a  scornful 
woman,  who  has  no  pity  for  feelings 
to  which  she  is  insensible,  but  like  a 
mother  who  is  sure  of  consoling  her 
sick  child.  Her  clear,  tranquil  eyes 
rested  upon  Jean-Louis,  who  gradual- 
ly raised  his,  that  he  might  look  at 
her  in  his  turn ;  for  everything  about 
this  girl  of  twenty  years  was  so  gen- 
tle and  calm,  and  at  the  same  time 
eo  good,  one  always  expected  to  re- 
ceive consolation  from  her. 

"  You  wish  to  scold  me  ?"  said 
Jean-Louis.  "  If  so,  do  it  without 
fear,  if  you  think  I  am  in  fault." 


"  Not  at  all,"  she  replied  ;  "  there 
is  nothing  wrong  in  what  you  have 
confided  to  me,  Jeannet.  I  pity  you 
with  my  whole  heart,  only  I  scarcely 
understand  you." 

"  Why  so,  Solange  ?  You  are, 
however,  very  kind,  and  certainly  have 
a  heart." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  she;  "but when  a 
creature  is  loved  so  dearly,  she  should 
be  esteemed  in  every  respect." 

"Don't  I  esteem  Jeannette?  O 
Solange  !  why  do  you  say  that  ?" 

"  But  I  only  repeat  what  you  first 
said,  my  child,"  she  replied  in  her 
maternal  tone,  which  was  very  sweet 
in  that  young  mouth.  "  You  think 
her  capable  of  despising  you,  and 
imagine  that  she  will  disdain  you 
when  she  learns  the  misfortune  of 
your  birth ;  therefore,  you  do  not 
esteem  her,  and  so,  I  repeat,  I  can't 
understand  such  great  affection." 

"  You  can  reason  very  coolly 
about  it,"  said  Jeannet;  "but  if  your 
soul  were  troubled  like  mine,  you 
would  not  see  so  clearly  to  the  bot- 
tom of  things." 

"  It  is  precisely  because  you  are  so 
troubled  that  the  good  God  permits 
this  conversation  to-night,"  she  re- 
plied. "  Let  me  tell  you  now  why  I 
still  hope.  Jeannette  at  this  moment 
sins  by  the  head,  but  her  heart  is  un- 
touched; and  here  is  the  proof :  the 
secret  you  so  dread  her  knowing  she 
has  known  as  well  as  either  of  us 
for  more  than  three  months.  Have 
you  seen  any  change  in  her  man- 
ner ?" 

"  Oh  !  is  it  possible  ?"  cried  Jean- 
net.  "  And  who  told  her  ?" 

"  I  myself,"  answered  Solange. 
"  She  had  heard  at  the  chateau  on;e 
words  dropped  by  Dame  Berthe, 
which  excited  her  curiosity.  After 
her  sickness,  when  I  went  to  stay 
with  her,  she  one  day  asked  an  ex- 
planation of  her  doubts ;  and  as  I 
feareo,  if  she  questioned  others,  she 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


89 


would  not  be  properly  answered,  I 
told  her  all." 

"  You  did  right;  and  what  was  her 
reply  ?" 

"She  threw  herself  in  my  arms, 
and  thanked  me,"  said  Solange.  "  For 
more  than  an  hour  she  spoke  of  her 
great  affection  for  you,  which  time 
had  augmented  instead  of  diminish- 
ing. She  wept  for  your  misfortune, 
and  thanked  God  that  her  parents 
had  acted  so  well,  as  by  that  act 
they  had  given  her  a  brother;  and 
never  did  I  see  her  so  gentle,  tender, 
and  kind.  She  made  me  promise  I 
would  never  tell  you  that  she  knew 
your  secret ;  but  the  poor  child  did 
not  then  foresee  the  necessity  that 
compels  me  to  speak  to-night  on  ac- 
count of  your  wicked  thoughts." 

"  Dear,  dear  Jeannette !"  said 
Jean-Louis,  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  have  heard  lately,"  continued 
Solange,  "  that  she  came  near  send- 
ing off  Isidore,  because  he  presumed, 
thinking  she  knew  nothing,  to  make 
some  allusion  to  the  subject.  She 
declared  that  she  considered  you 
her  brother,  and  those  who  wished 
to  be  friends  of  hers  must  think  the 
same." 

"  Say  no  more,"  said  Jeannet. 
"  I  will  love  her  more  than  ever." 

"  No,"  replied  she,  "  it  is  useless. 
Only  don't  despair.  Take  courage, 
for  there  is  always  hope  when  the 
heart  is  good ;  and  the  moment  this 
poor  child,  who  is  now  acting  with- 
out reflection,  will  know  she  should 
despise  Isidore,  she  will  dismiss  him 
and  drive  him  away  as  she  would  a 
dangerous  animal." 

"  But  will  she  ever  know  it  ?"  said 
Jean-Louis. 

"  Hope  in  God,"  replied  the  pious 
girl.  "  Has  he  ever  yet  abandoned 
you  ?" 

"  Beg  him  to  make  me  as  confident 
as  you,"  said  he,  looking  at  her  with 
admiration.  "  What  good  you  do 


me !    How  can  I  repay  you,  Solange, 
for  such  kind  words  ?" 

"  Perhaps,"  said  she  seriously — 
"  perhaps,  one  day,  I  may  ask  you  to 
do  me  a  great  service." 

"  Really !  Let  me  know  it  now. 
I  will  be  so  happy  to  serve  you." 

"Yes?  Well,  then,  I  will,"  re- 
plied Solange,  after  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation. "  You  have  laid  bare  your 
heart  to  me ;  I  will  return  your  confi- 
dence. Jean-Louis,  I  also  have  a 
secret  love  in  my  soul,  and  I  will 
die  if  I  do  not  obtain  what  I  de- 
sire." 

"  You !"  said  Jeannet,  astonished  ; 
"  you,  dear  Solange !  I  always 
thought  you  so  quiet  and  so  happy 
in  your  life." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  she,  sighing.  "  I 
look  so,  because  I  cannot  let  people 
see  what  they  could  not  understand. 
But  with  you,  Jean-Louis,  it  is  differ- 
ent ;  I  can  tell  you  everything." 

"  I  hope,  at  least,"  said  Jeannet, 
smiling,  "  that  he  whom  you  love  is 
worthy  of  your  esteem." 

"  Oh  !  yes,"  she  replied,  crossing 
her  arms  on  her  breast,  while  her 
pale,  beautiful  face  crimsoned  with 
fervor — "  oh  !  yes,  for  he  whom  I  love 
is  the  Lord  our  God.  I  wish  to  be 
a  Sister  of  Charity,  Jeannet,  and  un- 
til then  there  will  be  no  happiness 
on  earth  for  me." 

Jean-Louis  for  a  moment  was 
dumb  with  surprise  at  this  avowal; 
then  he  knelt  before  her,  and  kissed 
her  hands. 

"  I  might  have  suspected  it,"  said 
he,  much  moved;  "you  were  not 
made  to  live  the  ordinary  life  of  the 
world.  God  bless  you,  dear  Solange, 
and  may  his  holy  angels  accompany 
you !  But  what  can  I  do  to  aid  you 
in  your  holy  wishes  ?" 

"  Much,"  she  replied ;  "  you  can 
inform  my  parents,  and  afterwards 
console  them ;  reason  with  Pierre, 
who  will  be  half  crazy  when  he  hears 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


of  my  departure ;  and  perhaps  you 
can  even  accompany  me  to  Paris, 
for  I  am  afraid  to  go  alone.  I  have 
never  been  away  from  home,  and  I 
would  not  dare  venture  on  that  long 
journey." 

"  But,  dear  Solange,  you  will  need 
a  great  deal  of  money  for  that." 

"  Oh  !"  said  she,  laughing,  "  do 
you  think  me  a  child  ?  For  two  years 
I  have  deprived  myself  of  everything, 
and  I  have  more  than  enough. 
See,"  she  added,  opening  a  little  box, 
which  she  kept  hidden  under  a  plaster 
statue  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  which 
stood  near  her  bed.  "  Count !" 

"  Three  hundred  francs !"  said 
Jeannet,  after  having  counted ;  "  and 
ten,  and  twenty,  and  thirty  more — 
three  hundred  and  sixty,  besides  the 
change.  There  are  nearly  four  hun- 
dred francs." 

"  There  will  be  when  I  am  paid 
for  what  I  am  now  embroidering," 
said  she.  "  Is  that  enough  ?" 

"  Ten  times  too  much,"  replied 
Jeannet.  "  Poor  dear  Solange !  what 
happiness  to  think  that  I  shall  see 
yqu  until  the  last  moment !" 

"  And  afterwards  again,"  said  she 
gaily ;  "  the  white  cornets  are  made 
to  go  over  the  world.  We  will  meet 
again,  don't  fear !" 

It  is  truly  said  that  example  is 
better  than  precept.  Jean-Louis  be- 
came a  man  again  before  that  beau- 
tiful and  pious  girl,  so  brave  and  so 
good.  His  heart  was  comforted,  his 
soul  strengthened.  He  would  have 
blushed  now  to  weep  about  his  sor- 
rows, when  Solange  was  about  to 
sacrifice  her  whole  life  to  the  sorrows 
of  others.  She  commenced  to  play 
her  part  of  Sister  of  Charity  with  him, 
and  God  doubtless  already  blessed 
her;  for  never  did  balm  poured  into 
a  wound  produce  a  more  instant 
effect. 

They  finished  their  little  arrange- 
ments just  as  the  Luguets  returned 


home.  Pierre  was  rather  gay,  as  he 
could  not  go  to  the  fair  without 
drinking  with  his  friends  ;  and  when  a 
man's  ordinary  drink  is  water  colored 
with  the  skins  of  grapes,  half  a  pint 
is  enough  to  make  him  feel  jolly. 

Therefore,  when  he  found  Solange 
and  Jeannet  in  conversation,  looking 
rather  more  serious  than  usual,  he 
commenced  to  look  very  wise,  whis- 
tled, winking  from  one  to  the  other, 
to  let  them  know  he  understood  what 
was  going  on.  Jean-Louis  was  seat 
ed  near  the  fire,  and  pondered  over 
the  mutual  confidences  made  that 
evening.  He  paid  little  attention  to 
Pierre's  manoeuvres ;  but  Solange  saw 
them,  and,  while  laying  the  cloth  for 
supper,  begged  her  brother  to  explain 
in  good  French  what  was  on  his 
mind. 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  pretty  one !"  said 
he,  trying  to  put  his  arm  around 
her  waist,  something  which  she  did 
not  permit  even  in  him ;  "  we  know 
something  about  you." 

"  Nothing  very  bad,"  she  replied, 
laughing ;  "  here  I  am  before  you  in 
flesh  and  blood,  and  you  see  I  am 
not  at  all  sick." 

"  Don't  be  so  sly,"  he  answered ; 
"  this  is  not  the  time.  We  returned 
from  the  fair  with  lots  of  acquaintan- 
ces, and  every  one  told  us  you  were 
going  to  be  married,  and  that  youi 
bans  would  be  published  next  Sun- 
day." 

"  It  is  rather  too  soon,"  said  Solange 
quietly;  "the  consent  of  the  parents 
will  be  needed,  and  I  don't  know 
yet  whether  it  will  be  given.  And 
to  whom  shall  I  be  married  ?  Those 
people  who  are  so  well  informed 
should  have  told  you  that." 

Thereupon  Pierre,  without  answer- 
ing, struck  Jean-Louis  on  the  shoul- 
der. 

"  Look  up,  sleepy-head  !"  cried  he 
in  his  ear.  "  Can  you  tell  me  who  is 
going  to  marry  my  sister  Solange  ?" 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


"Who?  What?"  answered  Jean- 
net,  like  one  coming  out  of  a  dream 
"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?" 

"  I  say  that  you  and  Solange  can 
keep  a  secret  famously,"  said  he, 
rather  spitefully.  "  It  is  well  to  keep 
it  secret,  when  you  are  only  thinking 
of  marriage,  and  I  don't  object  to 
your  first  arranging  it  between  your- 
selves; but  now  that  everybody 
knows  it  except  us,  it  is  rather  pro- 
voking for  the  family." 

"  You  are  crazy,"  said  Jean-Louis. 

"A  big  baby,  at  least,"  said  So- 
lange, shrugging  her  shoulders. 

"  All  very  well,"  said  Pierre  ;  "  we 
know  what  we  know.  We  say  no- 
thing further.  When  you  choose  to 
speak  of  your  affairs,  well,  we  will  be 
ready  to  listen  to  you." 

Jeannet  was  about  to  reply,  but 
Luguet  and  his  wife,  who  all  this  while 
had  been  in  the  barn,  giving  a  look 
at  the  cattle,  to  see  that  all  was  safe 
for  the  night,  re-entered  the  room, 
and  Solange  motioned  to  Jean-Louis 
not  to  continue  such  a  useless  con- 
versation before  her  parents. 


But  whether  Pierre  was  more  ob- 
stinate than  usual  that  night  on  ac- 
count of  the  wine  in  his  head,  or 
whether  his  great  friendship  for  Jean- 
net  inflamed  his  desire  for  the  al- 
liance, certain  it  is  he  would  not  give 
up  his  belief  in  the  approaching  mar- 
riage, and  continued  throughout  sup- 
per to  make  jokes  and  clack  his 
wooden  shoes  underneath  the  table; 
in  fact,  he  acted  like  a  boy  who  is 
sure  of  his  facts  and  loves  to  torment 
people.  Jean-Louis  several  times 
was  on  the  point  of  telling  him  to  be 
quiet,  but  Solange,  with  her  gentle 
smiles,  always  prevented  him. 

You  can  well  perceive  this  confirm- 
ed Pierre  in  his  belief  that  they  un- 
derstood each  other,  as  honest  lovers 
have  the  right  to  do ;  so  that,  if  he 
was  a  little  doubtful  on  his  return 
from  the  fair,  he  was  no  longer  so  at 
the  end  of  the  supper,  and  went  to 
bed  so  firmly  persuaded  that  he 
would  soon  have  Jeannet  for  brother- 
in-law,  they  could  easier  have  cut  off 
his  right  hand  than  make  him  believe 
to  the  contrary. 


TJte  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


XVI. 

HOWEVER,  our  good  friends  at 
Muiceron  had  not  become,  believe 
me,  so  entirely  perverted  by  vanity 
as  to  lose  all  remembrance  of  the 
past.  They  could  not  have  lived 
twenty  years  with  a  boy  as  perfect 
in  conduct  and  affection  as  Jean- 
Louis  without  missing  him  as  the 
days  rolled  on. 

I  acknowledge,  nevertheless,  that 
the  first  week  passed  so  quickly  in 
the  midst  of  the  flurry  and  fuss  of 
the  marriage  contract  and  presents 
— bought  on  credit — that  the  ab- 
sence of  the  good  child  was  scarcely 
felt;  but,  towards  the  end  of  the 
second  week,  one  evening  Pierrette 
asked  Ragaud  if  the  time  had  not 
nearly  expired  that  Jean-Louis  had 
been  lent  to  Michou  for  the  clearing 
of  the  forest  of  Montreux;  "for," 
said  she,  "  I  cannot  live  any  longer 
without  him,  he  was  of  so  much  use 
to  me,  and  the  house  is  so  empty 
without  him." 

"  I  gave  him  for  a  fortnight,"  re- 
plied Ragaud,  "  and  I  would  not 
disoblige  Michou  by  reclaiming  him 
before ;  but  I  think  we  will  see  him 
next  week,  and  then  I  hope  he  will 
be  over  his  little  miff." 

"  What  miff?"  asked  Pierrette. 

"  Bless  me !  wife,  you  are  a  little 
too  simple  if  you  have  not  noticed 
long  before  this  how  sullen  the  boy 
has  become." 

.  "  He  never  says  much,"  replied 
Pierrette,  "  and  we  have  all  been  so 
very  busy  lately,  it  has  made  him 
more  silent  even  than  usual." 


"  That  is  precisely  it,"  said  Ra- 
gaud. "  You  have  petted  him  so 
much,  he  fancied  everything  was  his; 
and  when  he  saw  us  so  occupied 
with  Jeannette's  marriage,  he  took  it 
in  dudgeon,  and  became  offended." 

"  That  would  be  very  wrong  in 
him,"  replied  La  Ragaude,  "and  I 
don't  believe  Jeannet  capable  of 
such  wicked  sentiments.  Jealousy 
is  not  one  of  his  faults  ;  on  the  con- 
trary, he  always  thinks  of  others 
before  himself." 

"  That  may  be,  that  may  be,  but 
you  cannot  judge  of  wine,  no  mat- 
ter how  old  you  may  know  it  to  be, 
before  tasting;  and,  in  the  same 
way,  you  cannot  answer  for  any 
quality  of  the  heart  until  it  has  been 
tried.  So  it  was  very  easy  for 
Jeannet  not  to  be  jealous  when 
there  was  no  subject  for  jealousy; 
but,  if  you  were  not  always  blind 
and  deaf  to  his  defects,  you  would 
acknowledge  that  from  the  day  that 
Isidore  put  his  foot  in  this  house  he 
has  changed  as  much  as  milk  turned 
into  curds." 

"  That  may  all  be,"  said  Pierrette, 
who  could  not  answer  her  husband's 
objections. 

"  That  may  all  be  so  easily  that  it 
is  positively  so,"  replied  Ragaud, 
"  and  Jeannet  will  not  re-enter  this 
house  until  I  have  spoken  verj 
plainly  to  him,  and  made  him  pro- 
mise to  treat  Isidore  as  a  brother." 

"That  is  just  what  I  think,"  re- 
plied good  Pierrette,  who  loved 
peace  above  all  things,  "and  you 
always  speak  wisely." 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


93 


Jeannette,   for  her   part,   had   a 
little    secret    annoyance    that    she 
carefully  concealed,  but  which  made 
her  more  irritable  and  less  docile 
than  usual,  greatly  to  the  astonish- 
ment of  Pierrette,  who  thought  her 
to  be  at  the  summit  of  happiness. 
After  being  rather  sullen  with  Jean- 
net,  because  he  did  not  appear  de- 
lighted   with    her    marriage,    and, 
above  all,   with  her  intended,   she 
was  now  displeased  to  see  Isidore 
parading  before  every  one — and  to 
her  the  first — his  great  satisfaction 
at  the  departure  of  Jean-Louis.    He 
even  seemed  to  seek  every  occasion 
to  speak  injuriously  of  him  before 
her  parents,  and  allowed  no  one  to 
praise  him  in  his  presence.      The 
child  was  not  very  patient,  we  al- 
ready know,  and,  as  Solange  truly 
said,  her  head  alone  was  dazzled ; 
her  heart  was  not  spoiled  enough  to 
make  her  lose  her  good  sense.    Still 
further,  she  began  to  feel  very  un- 
easy on  a  subject  which  she  wished 
to  understand  clearly  before  finally 
engaging  herself — it  was  that  of  re- 
ligion.     She   had   felt  the  ground 
around  Perdreau,  and,  although  he 
was  as  hypocritical  as  the  devil,  he 
had    attempted   several    very   dis- 
agreeable  jokes   about  the  church 
and  her  ceremonies  which,  I  must 
say,   provoked    Jeannette  to    such 
a  degree,  she   openly  showed   her 
displeasure.      Thereupon    Isidore, 
seeing   that  he   had   gone  too  far, 
and  that  he  must  be  more  careful 
or  he  would  lose  her  dowry,  tried 
to  play  the  part  of  a  saint  in  his 
niche ;  but  it  was  a  comedy  in  which 
he  was  not  well  skilled  from  want 
of  practice,   and   Jeannette,   more 
and   more   worried    and   unhappy, 
commenced  to  regret  that  the  good 
and  wise  Jeannet  was  no  longer  at 
her  side  to  aid  her  with  his  advice, 
of  which  she  had  never  before  felt 
such  urgent  need. 


So  she,  in  her  turn,  hazarded  the 
same  request  as  Pierrette,  and  ask- 
ed her  father  when  they  might  ex- 
pect the  return  of  Jean-Louis. 

Ragaud  made  her  nearly  the  same 
reply  as  he  had  done  to  his  wife, 
without  mentioning  his  ideas  in  rela- 
tion to  Jeannet's  supposed  jealousy  ; 
and  Jeannette  patiently  awaited 
him. 

But  the  fortnight  went  by  with- 
out any  sign  of  the  boy,  and  it 
could  be  easily  perceived  that 
Jeannette  was  becoming  nervous — a 
kind  of  sickness  little  known  in  the 
country  even  by  name,  but  which 
mademoiselle's  example  had  taught 
Jeannette  to  attempt  whenever 
things  did  not  go  on  exactly  as  she 
wished.  However,  affairs  went  on 
precisely  as  those  rascally  Per- 
dreaux  desired.  The  marriage- 
contract  was  prepared,  and,  after 
an  immense  scrawl  of  big  words, 
which  Ragaud  did  not  understand, 
it  concluded  by  making  the  good 
man  abandon  all  his  personal  and 
landed  property  to  his  daughter, 
only  reserving  for  himself  a  mod- 
erate annuity.  Ragaud  was  asham- 
ed to  avow  that  all  this  waste  paper 
was  entirely  above  his  comprehen- 
sion. He  tried  to  look  very  wise,  but 
proved  by  his  questions  that  he 
was  caught  in  a  trap ;  for,  after  the 
reading  of  the  knavish  document, 
which  stripped  him  of  everything, 
he  innocently  asked  if  he  would  re- 
tain the  right  to  manage  Muiceron, 
and  live  there  as  master  during  his 
life. 

"  Undoubtedly,"  replied  the  no- 
tary ;  "your  children  would  be  un- 
natural to  let  it  be  otherwise.  I 
have  done  all  for  the  best,  for  I 
suppose  you  do  not  wish  to  oblige 
my  son  to  marry  under  the  dotal 
law?" 

"What  is  the  dotal  taw t"  said 
Ragaud. 


94 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


"  It  is  the  greatest  disgrace  that 
can  be  imposed  on  a  man,"  gravely 
replied  the  notary. 

"Oh!  I  beg  pardon,  M.  Per- 
dreau ;  and  so  in  your  paper  there 
is  no  question  of  that  ?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  the  notary. 
"  I  have  drawn  up  the  papers  for 
the  good  father  and  honorable  man 
that  you  are." 

"  Then  it  is  all  right,  and  I  have 
nothing  more  to  do  but  to  thank 
you,"  said  the  honest  farmer. 

"  We  could  both  sign  it  this 
evening,"  said  the  head  rascal. 

"  There  is  no  hurry,"  said  Ra- 
gaud ;  "  we  will  do  that  when  all 
the  family  are  present,  before  my 
wife  and  the  children.  I  wish 
Jeannet  to  sign  it  also." 

"  Sign  ?  Your  Jean-Louis  can't 
sign  it,"  said  the  notary,  "  as  he  has 
no  name ;  the  law,  M.  Ragaud,  does 
not  recognize  illegitimate  children." 

"  Really !  That  is  cruel  for  the 
boy,  monsieur ;  at  least,  I  would 
like  him  to  hear  the  paper  read." 

"  For  what  reason  ?" 

"  To  please  him,  that  is  all ;  he 
has  been  like  a  child  to  us  for 
twenty  years,  and  has  never  deserv- 
ed to  be  driven  from  the  family." 

"  As  you  please ;  I  think  it  use- 
less. In  business,  you  see,  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  sentiment ;  how- 
ever, if  you  prefer  it  ..." 

"  I  certainly  do  prefer  it,"  replied 
Ragaud  firmly.  "  I  have  been  a  just 
man  all  my  life,  monsieur,  and  I  do 
not  wish  now  to  act  unjustly  to- 
ward a  child  who  has  always  served 
me  so  faithfully." 

The  notary  did  not  reply,  but  his 
ugly  weasel-face  showed  such  bitter 
displeasure  that  Ragaud,  already 
dissatisfied  with  the  conversation, 
suddenly  remembered  Jacques  Mi- 
chou's  remarks,  and  promised  him- 
self to  keep  his  eyes  open. 

Fortunately,  the  good  God  gives 


to  honest  men  a  sense  of  distrust 
which  is  easily  sharpened.  The 
peasant,  in  particular,  is  never  en- 
tirely at  ease  when  spoken  to  in 
more  difficult  language  than  two 
and  two  make  four.  Now,  Ra- 
gaud, on  account  of  his  vanity,  did 
not  wish  to  acknowledge  before 
others  that  he  understood  nothing 
of  all  the  fine  writing  on  the  stamp- 
ed paper,  but  he  avowed  it  to  him- 
self, and,  putting  on  a  perfectly  in- 
nocent air,  he  said  to  Perdreau : 

"  Will  you  have  the  kindness  to 
let  me  have  the  papers  for  a  few 
days?  I  would  like  to  read  them 
over  again  when  I  have  time." 

"  Very  willingly,"  replied  the  no- 
tary, well  convinced — and  there  he 
was  right — that  good  Ragaud  could 
not  decipher  the  handwriting,  and 
that  it  would  be  all  Greek  to  him. 
"  I  was  even  going  to  propose  it  to 
you.  Take  them,  M.  Ragaud,  and 
read  them  at  your  leisure ;  but 
I  need  not  tell  you  that  it  must  re- 
main a  secret  between  us  until  the 
day  the  contract  is  signed." 

"  I  understand,"  replied  Ragaud. 
"  I  know  how  to  be  discreet,  mon- 
sieur, and  I  am  not  more  desirous 
than  you  that  my  daughter's  affairs 
should  be  known  all  over  the  neigh- 
borhood." 

He  did  not  speak  falsely  in  pro- 
mising it ;  for  to  a  Christian  the 
word  of  a  priest  is  sacred,  and  he 
only  intended  to  let  the  curt  read 
the  contract  under  the  seal  of  con- 
fession. 

The  next  day  it  so  happened 
that  M.  Perdreau  went  to  the  city, 
where  he  expected  to  pass  two  days, 
to  plan  an  affair  still  worse  than  the 
rest,  which  you  will  know  in  due 
time.  Ragaud,  thus  having  the 
field  clear,  hurried  off  to  Val-Saint, 
with  the  papers  carefully  folded 
under  his  blouse. 

That  morning  Jeannette  was  not 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


95 


in  good  humor.  Three  weeks  had 
gone  by  without  any  news  of  Jean- 
net,  who  did  not  even  return  to 
sleep  at  Muiceron.  She  received 
her  loving  Isidore  like  a  spoiled 
child,  shrugged  her  shoulders  when 
he  told  her  she  was  charmingly 
pretty,  and  ended  by  telling  him 
he  must  find  out  something  about 
Jean-Louis,  and  bring  him  back  to 
her  as  quickly  as  possible,  or  else 
she  would  not  believe  he  loved  her. 

Isidore,  who  had  every  defect — 
above  all,  the  silly  vanity  to  think 
that  he  was  fully  capable  of  turning 
the  heads  of  all  the  girls,  which  is, 
in  itself,  a  proof  of  presumptuous 
folly — pretended  at  first  to  take  it  as 
a  joke,  imagining  that  Jeannette 
wished  to  provoke  his  jealousy. 
But  seeing  her  serious  and  resolute, 
he  replied  in  an  angry  tone  that 
such  a  commission  was  not  to  his 
taste. 

"  In  that  case,"  she  replied,  "  it 
is  not  to  mine  to  talk  to  you  to- 
day." 

"  Then  I  will  take  my  leave," 
said  he,  touching  his  hat. 

She  did  not  detain  him,  and 
contented  herself  with  smiling, 
which  he  thought  another  little 
coquettish  trick. 

"  You  are  like  all  women,"  said 
he  slowly,  "who  do  not  mind  sacri- 
ficing their  hearts  for  a  whim." 

"What  do  you  call  a  whim?" 
replied  Jeannette.  "  Is  the  desire 
to  see  my  brother  again  a  whim  ? 
Very  well,  then,  I  declare  to  you 
that  I  will  regard  nothing  decided 
as  to  our  marriage  until  Jean-Louis 
has  returned  home." 

"  Do  you  think,  my  little  beauty," 
said  he,  turning  red  with  anger, 
"  that  I  will  let  you  call  that  vaga- 
bond of  a  foundling  brother  after 
you  become  my  wife  ?" 

"  We  will  see, "replied  she;  "but, 
meanwhile,  I  do  not  intend  to 


change,   and   neither   will    I   allow 
Jeannet  to  be  insulted  in  my  pre 
sence  ;  it  is  not  the  first  time  I  have 
told  you  so,  M.  Isidore." 

"  And  so  you  are  capable  of  be- 
coming seriously  angry  with  me, 
who  adores  you,  on  account  of  your 
pretended  brother  ?" 

"  If  you  are  unreasonable  and 
unjust,"  said  she  resolutely,  "  I 
will  no  longer  love  you." 

"You  scarcely  love  me  now," 
said  he  sullenly.  "  I  did  not  believe 
that  the  day  would  ever  come  when 
you  could  think  so  little  of  me." 

"  I  have  always  thought,"  she 
replied,  "  that  husband  and  wife 
should  agree  upon  all  points.  Ever 
since  I  can  remember,  I  have  al- 
ways had  a  respect  and  friendship 
for  Jean-Louis,  and  never  has  he 
behaved  otherwise  than  well  in 
this  house,  where  he  is  looked  upon 
as  a  son.  I  don't  know  why  my  • 
marriage  should  change  my  feelings 
in  regard  to  him ;  and  that  is  a  ques- 
tion I  confess  we  had  better  settle 
at  once  before  going  any  further. 

"  Very  well,"  said  M.  Isidore, 
speaking  like  one  who  had  sudden- 
ly decided  upon  some  plan.  "  I  am 
very  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  pain 
you,  but  I  will  not  bother  myself 
about  this  bast —  about  this  Jean- 
Louis,  and  that  because  it  is  time 
you  should  know  the  truth  about 
him ;  he  is  far  from  being  worthy 
of  your  esteem,  my  dear  Jeanne." 

"  Oh !  indeed  !"  said  she.  "  Here 
is  something  very  new;  and  the 
proof,  if  you  please?" 

"You  insist  upon  knowing  it?" 

"Absolutely  and  quickly,"  re- 
plied Jeannette,  who  began  to  gicw 
impatient. 

"You  will  certainly  be  grieved 
and  there  is  reason  for  it,"  said  Is:- 
dore  in  a  sad  tone.  "Knjvr,  then, 
that  this  Jean-Louis,  .whom  you 
fancy  dying  with  grief  because  he 


96 


The  Farm  of  Miiiceron. 


no  longer  sees  you,  is  all  the  while 
enjoying  himself  immensely." 

"How  can  he  amuse  himself?" 
asked  Jeannette.  "  You  are  telling 
stories.  Jeannet  is  in  the  wood  of 
Montreux,  where  he  has  too  much 
to  do,  in  clearing  out  the  forest,  to 
think  of  anything  else ;  besides, 
he  is  not  naturally  very  gay,  poor 
boy!" 

"Poor  boy!  Don't  pity  him  so 
much ;  he  would  laugh  if  he  heard 
you.  Clearing  the  wood  of  Mon- 
treux— he  ?  It  is  a  mere  pretence 
to  hide  his  game  ;  he  wishes  to  be 
more  at  ease  to  court  Solange  Lu- 
guet. 

"  M.  Isidore,"  cried  Jeannette, 
starting  up,  pale  with  anger,  "  keep 
on  speaking  ill  of  Jean-Louis — he  is 
a  man,  andean  defend  himself;  but 
to  speak  thus  of  my  cousin  Solange 
is  a  cowardly  falsehood  !" 

"How  pretty  you  look!"  said 
Isidore  insoUntly.  "  Anger  is  so  be- 
coming to  you,  I  would  always  like 
to  see  you  so,  if  it  were  not  so  pain- 
ful to  me  to  excite  you  thus.  No, 
Jeanne,  I  do  not  lie.  M.  Jean- 
Louis,  who  owes  his  life  to  your 
parents,  and  whom  you  call  brother, 
at  this  very  instant  ridicules  the 
whole  household.  He  is  going  to 
marry  Solange,  and  I  don't  believe 
he  will  even  inform  you  of  it." 

"Who  told  you  so  ?"  asked  Jean- 
nette, amazed.  "  People  will  gossip 
so." 

"  I  had  it  from  Pierre  Luguet. 
It  is  true  it  is  common  talk,  but  I 
would  not  have  believed  it,  if  So- 
lange's  own  brother  had  not  said 
it." 

"Can  you  swear  it  to  me?"  said 
she. 

"  I  can  swear  to  it  positively. 
Ask  Pierre ;  you  see  I  am  not  afraid 
of  being  proved  a  liar." 

"  I  believe  you,"  said  Jeanne, 
who  sought  in  vain  to  keep  back 


the  tears  that  rilled  her  eyes. 
"  Never,  I  confess,  would  I  have  be- 
lieved that  of  Jean-Louis." 

"  You  understand  now  why  I 
did  not  care  to  start  in  search  of 
that  gentleman.  I  am  indignant  at 
his  conduct ;  it  is  frightful  ingrati- 
tude. To  think  that  he  had  here 
a  father,  a  mother,  a  sister,  and 
that  he  abandons  all  to  go  off  and 
be  secretly  married !  Is  it  not 
proof  in  itself  that  he  renounces 
and  despises  you  ?" 

"  Oh !  it  is  very  wrong,  very 
wrong  !"  said  Jeannette,  much  ex- 
cited. "  You  were  right — I  can 
no  longer  call  him  brother." 

"  I  hope  not ;  it  would  be  affec- 
tion very  badly  bestowed,  and 
which  would  make  you  the  laugh- 
ing-stock of  the  village.  Are  you 
still  angry  with  me,  my  dear  Jean- 
ne ?" 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  she,  extend- 
ing her  hand ;  "  you  see,  I  have 
had  good  reason  for  sorrow." 

And  then  she  burst  into  tears, 
no  longer  able  to  restrain  them,  but 
without  exactly  knowing  the  cause 
of  so  real  a  pain. 

Isidore  did  not  expect  to  suc- 
ceed so  well.  This  time  he  had 
not  lied ;  he  really  believed  Jeannet 
would  be  married,  as  that  giddy- 
brained  Pierre  had  announced  the 
fact  to  him.  And  yet  he  did  not 
like  to  see  Jeanne  weep  for  such  a 
little  thing.  It  made  him  think 
that  the  affection  of  these  two  chil- 
dren, who  had  lived  together  as 
brother  and  sister  for  so  many 
years,  was  much  stronger  than  he 
had  believed,  and  he  was  more  de- 
termined than  ever  to  put  a  stop  to 
it  after  he  was  married,  and  even 
before,  if  he  could. 

He  left  Muiceron  very  much  dis- 
satisfied. Jeannette  was  sad ;  she 
let  him  go  off  without  scarcely  no- 
ticing him.  When  she  was  aior.e 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


97 


the  wish  to  seek  some  consolation 
led  her  to  go  after  her  mother,  to 
see  if  she  had  heard  the  news,  and 
to  talk  with  her  about  it. 

But,  behold  !  just  as  she  left  the 
room  she  ran  against  some  one, 
and  who  should  it  be  but  Jean- 
Louis,  who  had  come  after  some 
changes  of  clothes  to  carry  off  to 
the  wood,  and  who,  knowing  that 
she  was  with  her  intended,  did  not 
wish  to  disturb  her. 

At  the  sight  of  her  brother  all  the 
readiness  of  her  character  came  back 
and  took  the  place  of  her  vexation. 
She  assumed  an  air  so  haughty 
that  Jeannet,  all  ready  to  embrace 
her,  stepped  back,  dumb  with  as- 
tonishment. 

"  You  there  ?"  said  Jeannette, 
with  a  frown  on  her  brow. 

"  You  there  ?  Why  do  you  speak 
so  to  me  ?"  asked  he,  astonished. 

"  You  must  not  forget,"  continu- 
ed Jeanne,  who  proudly  raised  her 
head  as  she  spoke,  "  that  I  am  en- 
gaged to  Isidore  Perdreau." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it,"  said  Jean- 
Louis. 

"  Consequently,"  she  replied,  "  it 
is  no  longer  possible  for  me  to 
treat  you  as  formerly.  You  know 
why?" 

"  I  know  it,"  answered  he,  lower- 
ing his  head. 

"  It  is  no  longer  proper,"  said 
she,  "  for  us  to  behave  as  brother 
and  sister,  since  we  are  not  so  real- 

iy." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Jeannet,  his 
heart  aching  with  mortal  agony. 

"  That  is  all  I  have  to  say,"  add- 
ed Jeannette  in  a  still  haughtier 
tone  ;  "  and  now,  Jean-Louis,  I  wish 
you  much  joy  and  happiness — this 
I  say  in  remembrance  of  our  friend- 
ship !" 

"  Are  you  bidding  me  farewell  ?" 
asked  he. 

"  I  will  see  you  later — and — and 


your  wife  also ;  but  you  under- 
stand ?" 

"  My  wife?"  said  Jeannet.     , 

"  Enough,"  replied  Jeanne  ;  "  I 
do  not  wish  to  know  your  secrets. 
It  is  useless  for  you  to  seek  my 
father  and  my  mother." 

And  with  that  she  rapidly  cross- 
ed the  room,  and  harried  off;  for, 
between  ourselves,  this  great  anger 
was  not  very  real,  and  the  longer 
she  looked  at  the  pale,  beautiful 
face  of  her  brother,  whom  she  had 
not  seen  for  such  a  long  time,  the 
more  she  felt  like  throwing  her 
arms  around  his  neck,  instead  of 
ill-treating  him.  But  her  words 
had  been  too  cruel ;  they  had  en- 
tered the  soul  of  Jean-Louis  like  so 
many  sword-thrusts.  It  was  all 
ended  for  him.  Proud  as  he  was, 
and  always  overwhelmed  with  the 
secret  grief  of  his  birth,  to  have 
it  recalled  to  him  by  so  dear  a 
mouth  was  deadly  suffering.  He 
remained  an  instant  as  though  his 
senses  had  left  him,  not  knowing 
what  to  do  or  to  think  ;  then  all  at 
once  his  reason  returned.  He  had 
just  been  driven  out,  and,  after  all, 
they  had  the  right  to  do  it.  He 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  his 
heart,  and  left  the  house,  with  the 
intention  of  never  returning. 

He  went  back  to  Michou,  and; 
passed  the  evening  with  him  at  the 
Luguets'.  He  said  nothing  of  what 
had  happened  to  any  one.  Dear,, 
good  Solange  noticed  that  he  was 
sadder  than  usual,  but  that  was  not 
astonishing ;  she  knew  he  had  been 
that  day  to  Muiceron,  and  she  very 
truly  thought  he  had  possibly  heard 
things  which  could  not  contribute 
to  lighten  his  heart  and  make  him 

gay- 
it  is  now  time  to  tell  you  that 

old  Perdreau  was  one  of  the  leaders 
of  a  band  of  ruffians  who  assembled 
in  a  lonely  field  every  week  in  our 


98 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


city  of  Issoudun,  where,  after  taking 
the  most  frightful  oaths,  they  plot- 
ted, murder,  arson,  and  the  rob- 
bery'of  the  chateaux  and  churches. 
It  was  what  is  called  a  secret  soci- 
ety, and  was  known  by  the  name  of 
la  Martine  ;  and  some  weeks  after- 
Wctrds,  when  the  Revolution  of  1848 
broke  out,  which  caused  such 
havoc  among  us,  there  was  a  well- 
known  man,  so  I  have  been  told, 
who  bore  the  same  name,  and  who 
placed  himself  at  the  head  of  the 
insurgents,  believing  them,  in  good 
faith,  to  be  the  most  honest  men  in 
the  world.  This  man,  who  was  as 
good  as  any  one  you  could  find, 
and  even  a  passable  Christian,  my 
father  assured  me,  bit  his  thumbs 
until  the  blood  came  when  he  saw 
himself  despised  and  his  counsel 
disregarded.  But  it  was  too  late ; 
the  evil  was  done.  Undoubtedly 
you  know  much  more  about  it  than 
I,  and  so  I  scarcely  dare  venture 
to  say  any  more  on  the  subject. 
You  must  only  know  that  the  curs- 
ed notary  had  used  all  the  money 
of  M.  le  Marquis  to  pay  the  rabble 
of/a  Martine,  with  the  understand- 
ing that,  when  they  pillaged  the 
chateau,  he  should  have  half  the 
estate,  including  the  dwelling-house. 

As  for  Isidore,  he  was  fully  up  to 
the  business,  and  worked  at  it  as- 
siduously, as  much  at  Paris  as  else- 
where. The  men  who  worked  in 
the  wood  of  Montreux  belonged  to 
the  gang ;  he  knew  them  all  by 
name,  and  kept  them  all  near  Val- 
Saint,  so  as  to  be  ready  for  the  con- 
templated insurrection.  But  in 
case  the  thing  should  not  succeed, 
or  would  be  delayed,  he  did  not 
think  it  beneath  him  to  provide 
himself  with  a  pear  to  satisfy  his 
thirst,  and  that  was  his  marriage. 

Our  good  Ragaud  returned  from 
his  interview  with  M.  le  Cure*  rather 
depressed  in  spirits.  The  contract, 


as  read  by  the  holy  man,  did  not, 
appear  to  him  as  captivating  as 
when  explained  by  the  notary.  He 
had  learned  still  further,  from  a  few 
words  discreetly  uttered,  that  it 
would  be  well  not  to  place  implicit 
faith  in  Master  Perdreau,  and  be- 
lieve him  the  personification  of 
honor,  as  until  then  he  had  inno- 
cently imagined.  What  now  could 
be  done  to  arrange,  or  rather  disar- 
range, affairs  so  far  advanced  ?  The 
poor  man  was  devoured  with  care 
and  anxiety.  He  dared  not  speak 
to  his  daughter,  whom  he  thought 
to  reduce  to  desperation  at  the 
mere  mention  of  the  word  rupture  ; 
and  then  to  withdraw  from  the  con- 
tract now  would  lower  him  tremen- 
dously in  the  eyes  of  the  world 
around.  No  longer  able  to  see  clear- 
ly, Ragaud  kept  quiet,  locked  the 
documents  safely  in  his  chest,  and 
waited — which,  in  many  circumstan- 
ces, is  the  wisest  policy. 

A  long  week  passed ;  then  came 
the  festivals  of  Christmas  and  New 
Year.  Old  Perdreau  was  half  dead 
with  impatience,  but  nevertheless 
dared  not  say  a  word,  or  even  ap- 
pear too  anxious.  What  bothered 
him,  besides,  was  that  the  rascally 
gang  in  the  wood  of  Montreux 
were  constantly  receiving  messages 
from  their  infernal  society  to  hurry 
up  affairs,  and,  therefore,  they 
threatened  to  commenee  the  dance 
before  the  violins  were  ready, 
which  would  have  spoiled  all  the 
plans.  Pushed  to  extremity,  he 
determined,  one  fine  day,  to  send 
his  son  secretly  to  allay  the  storm 
by  speaking  to  his  worthy  compan- 
ions in  roguery. 

Isidore,  who  feared  nothing  and 
no  one,  ridiculed  his  father's  anx- 
iety. He  promised  to  quiet  them 
that  very  night,  and  about  eleven 
o'clock,  in  spite  of  the  bad  weather 
— for  it  was  snowing,  and  the  wind 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


99 


was   very   high — he   left    for  Val- 
Saint. 

The  place  they  were  clearing  was 
quite  far  from  M.  Michou's  little 
house,  where  Jean-Louis  slept,  to- 
gether with  the  game-keeper.  The 
men,  as  is  customary  among  wood- 
cutters, had  constructed  a  large  re- 
treat formed  of  the  trunks  of  trees, 
cemented  with  mud  and  moss.  It 
was  towards  this  spot  that  young 
Perdreau  directed  his  steps ;  and 
never  did  a  stormier  night  fall  upon 
an  uglier  traveller. 

XVII. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  conjecture 
that  Jeannet,  in  spite  of  his  heart- 
troubles  and  sorrows,  had  not  been 
— sharp  as  he  was — blind  to  the 
character  of  the  men  who  worked 
under  his  orders  in  the  wood  of 
Montreux.  In  the  first  place,  Mi- 
chou  warned  him  from  the  begin- 
ning to  be  watchful,  and  not  to  al- 
low the  slightest  infringement  of 
discipline  or  drunkenness  among 
men,  who  were  unknown  and  of  de- 
cidedly doubtful  appearance.  One 
warning  sufficed ;  he  observed  for 
himself,  and  caught  at  random  more 
than  one  stray  expression  which  he 
chanced  to  overhear.  And  then, 
what  could  be  expected  from  men 
who  seemed  to  be  without  family  or 
friends,  who  never  frequented  the 
church,  and  shunned  the  places 
where  the  honest  people  of  the 
commune  were  accustomed  to  as- 
semble ?  Certainly,  our  good  Jean- 
Louis  was  not  wanting  in  penetra- 
tion, and  old  Michou,  who  prided 
himself  upon  seeing  very  far  into 
everything,  was  as  distrustful  as 
he ;  consequently,  they  agreed  that 
every  night  one  or  the  other  should 
take  a  turn  around  the  retreat  of 
the  wood-cutters,  and  see  what  was 
going  on  in  this  nest  of  mischiev- 
ous rascals.  To  do  this,  Jeannet 


had  skilfully  managed  to  make  an 
opening  in  the  angle  opposite  to 
that  where  the  men  had  established 
their  fire-place,  so  that,  the  room 
being  well  lighted  inside,  everything 
could  be  clearly  seen  outside. 

Usually,  and  for  many  nights,  all 
was  quiet  and  orderly;  the  greater 
part  of  the  band  of  la  Martine, 
tired  out  with  the  day's  labors, 
slept  soundly  all  the  evening, 
stretched  pell-mell  upon  heaps  of 
dried  leaves  strewed  over  the  floor 
of  their  bivouac.  Only  a  few  re- 
mained drinking  by  the  hearth  ;  so 
that  the  watchers,  after  a  glance 
around,  went  off  to  sleep  in  their 
turn. 

On  the  night  of  which  I  speak, 
Michou  should  have  made  the 
round,  but  Jean-Louis,  who  since 
the  scene  at  Muiceron  had  been 
miserably  unhappy,  and  could  not 
sleep,  asked  leave  to  fulfil  the  extra 
duty. 

"  It  is  very  stormy,"  said  he  to  his 
old  comrade.  "  Remain  at  home, 
M.  Jacques ;  I  will  go  to  Montreux 
in  your  place." 

"  Be  off,  then,"  said  the  keeper, 
without  waiting  to  be  asked  twice, 
"  you  are  young  and  not  rheumatic  ; 
and  I  will  smoke  my  pipe  while 
waiting  for  you." 

Jeannet  threw  over  his  shoulders 
a  heavy  brown  wrapper,  and  was 
off  in  a  flash. 

When  he  reached  the  retreat,  he 
was  surprised  to  see  light  shining 
through  the  two  or  three  little  win- 
dows under  the  roof,  and  a  big 
column  of  smoke  coming  out  of  the 
chimney.  Just  at  this  moment  Isi- 
dore entered  from  his  side ;  he 
made  them  open  the  door,  by 
means  of  a  signal  well  known 
among  men  of  that  stamp  ;  they  re- 
ceived him  with  much  honor,  and 
rekindled  the  fire,  which  was  burn- 
ing rather  low. 


100 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


Jeannet  looked  through  the  open- 
ing; judge  of  his  astonishment 
when  he  recognized  Jeannette's  in- 
tended, and  saw  the  cordial  wel- 
come extended  to  him  by  the  men, 
who  grasped  him  by  the  hand,  and 
made  room  for  him  among  them. 
He  was  dumfounded,  almost  fancied 
himself  in  a  dream,  but,  at  the 
same  time,  shook  with  anger,  shame, 
and  sorrow. 

But  this  was  only  the  beginning 
of  his  surprise.  If  the  inside  could 
easily  be  seen,  the  conversation 
was  as  plainly  heard  through  the 
wooden  walls,  lined  with  moss  ;  and 
what  he  heard  froze  the  blood  in 
his  veins.  Isidore  first  spoke,  and 
made  an  eloquent  discourse,  which 
was  several  times  interrupted  by 
the  bravos  of  his  audience ;  in 
which  speech  he  showed  precisely 
what  he  was — a  pagan,  an  agrarian, 
a  complete  villain,  without  either 
faith  or  justice.  He  encouraged 
his  friends,  the  ruffianly  crew  before 
him,  to  proceed  to  arson  and  pillage 
— to  murder,  if  necessary — for  the 
one  purpose,  said  he,  of  gaining  the 
triumph  of  the  holy  cause.  This 
word  holy,  which  he  did  not  scruple 
to  repeat,  sounded  so  horribly  in 
his  blasphemous  mouth  that  poor 
Jean-Louis  shuddered  while  listen- 
ing to  him ;  not  from  fear,  but  from 
the  furious  desire  to  avenge  the 
name  of  holy,  which  he  had  dared 
to  pollute  with  his  tongue. 

"O  my  God!"  thought  he; 
"  that  the  husband  of  Jeannette  ! 
And  is  it  on  account  of  such 
a  vagabond  that  I  have  been 
treated  so  harshly  ?  Poor,  poor 
Jeanne  !" 

After  Isidore  had  finished  his 
frightful  speech,  his  companions 
began  to  curse  and  swear  all  at 
once.  Glasses  of  brandy  were 
passed  around,  and  their  heads,  al- 
ready heated  by  wicked  passions, 


became  still  more  excited;  so 
that  they  began  to  dispute  among 
themselves  as  to  whom  should  be- 
long this  and  that  piece  of  the 
estate  of  Val-Saint.  This  one 
wanted  the  fields,  another  the  wood, 
a  third  such  or  such  a  farm,  and  so 
on  with  the  rest,  until  Isidore,  com- 
manding silence,  reminded  them, 
with  threats  and  oaths,  that  the 
chateau  should  belong  to  his  father, 
and  that  whoever  failed  to  comply 
with  his  promise  would  be  answer- 
able to  him  personally. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  one  of  the 
men,  "  we  will  see  a  little  about 
that ;  he  is  going  rather  too  far.  Is 
it  because  he  is  going  to  marry  a 
devotee — eh,  Isidore  ?" 

Perdreau  turned  livid  with  anger 
at  being  thus  addressed — not  that 
he  respected  Jeannette  or  her  prin- 
ciples, but  because  he  was  as  proud 
as  a  peacock ;  and  as  he  held  every 
one  around  him  in  sovereign  con- 
tempt, he  did  not  recognize  their 
right  to  meddle  in  his  private  af- 
fairs. 

"I  will  marry  whom  I  please," 
said  he  haughtily ;  "  and  the  first 
one  that  finds  fault  has  only  to 
speak." 

"Bah!  bah!  Isidore,  don't  be 
angry,"  said  an  old  wood-cutter, 
who  went  by  the  name  of  Blackbeard, 
on  account  of  his  savage  look. 
"  What  they  say  is  only  for  your 
good;  we  have  heard  tell  of  your 
marriage,  and  it  alarms  us.  The 
truth  is  that  if  the  thing  is  true, 
you  will  be  tied  for  ever  to  that  Ra- 
gaud,  who  belongs  to  the  sacristy 
clique." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !"  replied  Isidore,  some- 
what pacified ;  "  the  moment  you 
talk  sense,  I  am  willing  to  answer. 
Tell  me,  then,  what  would  you  do 
if  a  chestful  of  gold  came  under 
your  hand  ?" 

"  What  nonsense  even  to  ask  such 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


101 


a  question  !     Why,  I  would  pick  it 
up,  of  course." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  am  doing," 
replied  Isidore,  laughing ;  "  and  as 
for  the  piety  and  all  that  stuff,  I 
don't  bother  myself.  When  I  will 
have  the  principal,  I  am  capable  of 
regulating  the  rest." 

"  Do  it,  and  joy  be  with  you," 
said  Blackbeard ;  "  we  understand 
each  other.  So  no  one  will  be  al- 
lowed to  interfere  with  Isidore ;  he 
is  worthy  of  our  esteem !" 

The  rascals  applauded,  and  re- 
commenced their  shameful  jokes 
and  infernal  proposals.  Isidore, 
once  more  master  of  the  assembly, 
spoke  at  greater  length,  and  ended 
by  exacting  an  oath  that  no  one 
should  move  in  the  cause  until  a 
given  signal  from  Paris.  They  all 
swore  as  he  wished,  and,  as  the 
night  was  far  advanced,  honest  Per- 
dreau  took  leave  of  his  good  friends, 
fearing  that  daylight  might  sur- 
prise him  before  he  could  regain 
his  house. 

Jean-Louis  needed  all  the 
strength  mercifully  granted  by  the 
good  God  in  such  a  trying  moment 
to  listen  until  the  end  to  all  these 
horrors.  The  blood  boiled  in  his 
veins ;  he  felt  neither  the  snow, 
nor  the  biting  north  wind,  and 
more  than  once  his  indignation  was 
so  great,  he  stepped  forward  and 
clenched  his  fist,  as  though  he  would 
throw  himself  in  the  midst  of  those 
demons,  without  reflecting  that  a 
solid  wall  separated  them  from  him. 
Happily,  he  restrained  himself;  for 
courage  is  not  imprudence,  and,  if 
he  had  failed  in  coolness,  he  would 
have  lost  all  the  results  of  the  im- 
portant discovery  he  had  just  made. 
He  went  back  to  Michou's  cabin, 
whom  he  found  awaiting  his  return, 
according  to  his  promise,  and  who 
had  commenced  to  feel  very  anx- 
ious about  his  long  absence. 


"  M.  Jacques,"  said  he,  on  enter- 
ing, "  I  came  very  near  not  return- 
ing. ..." 

And  in  a  few  words  he  recounted 
all  he  had  heard  and  seen. 

Michou  said  not  a  word.  He  re- 
lighted his  pipe,  and,  paced  the  floor, 
plunged  in  thought. 

"  I  knew  the  Perdreaux  were  fa- 
mous scamps,"  said  he  at  last,  "  but 
not  quite  so  bad  as  that !" 

"  Oh  !"  cried  Jeannet,  "  if  my 
death  could  have  saved  Jeannette 
from  that  rascal,  I  would  have 
broken  in  the  door  and  fallen  in 
the  midst  of  them  without  hesita- 
tion." 

"  A  very  stupid  thing  you  would 
have  done,  then,"  replied  Michou  ; 
"  they  would  have  killed  you,  and 
to-morrow  announced  that  you  had 
fallen  from  a  tree.  That  would 
have  been  a  lucky  thing  for  Per- 
dreau." 

"God  watched  over  me,"  replied 
Jean-Louis.  "  And  now,  what  shall 
we  do  ?" 

"  That  little  Ragaud,"  said  Mi- 
chou, "  deserves  it  all  for  her  fri- 
volity and  vanity ;  and,  as  a  pun- 
ishment, we  should  let  her  go  to 
the  end  of  the  rope  with  her  Isidore." 

"  Never,  never  !"  cried  Jean-Lou- 
is. "  You  are  not  speaking  serious- 
ly ?  The  daughter  of  your  old 
brother-in-arms  ?" 

"Ha!"  replied  the  old  fellow, 
"my  old  brother-in-arms!  Ten 
years  ago  I  predicted  what  would 
be  the  end  of  his  nonsense." 

"  This  is  not  the  time  to  wish  it 
now,"  replied  Jeannet.  "  Let  us 
save  them,  M.  Michou ;  I  can  do 
noihing  without  you." 

"  Why  not  ?  You  have  a  tongue 
like  me ;  more  than  that,  you  saw 
and  heard  all;  go  to-morrow  to 
Muiceron." 

"  Impossible,"  said  Jeannet,  much 
embarrassed. 


IO2 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


%    "Impossible?      There   is    some- 
thing behind  that!" 

"  But  was  it  not  you  yourself 
who  made  me  promise  not  to  re- 
turn to  my  parents  ?" 

"  Most  certainly,  my  child  ;  but 
the  case  is  urgent,  it  seems  to  me, 
and  they  should  know  in  time,  so 
as  to  change  their  minds  before  it 
is  too  late." 

"  I  will  lose  my  self-control  if  I 
meet  Isidore  face  to  face." 

"  Jeannet,"  said  Michou,  "  you 
have  a  good  heart.  I  know  all,  my 
boy ;  they  drove  you  from  Mui- 
ceron. Marion  heard  that  little 
magpie  of  a  Jeannette  dismiss  you, 
and  she  related  the  story  to  me, 
weeping  all  the  while,  good  fat  girl 
that  she  is.  I  wished  to  see  how 
far  your  generosity  would  carry 
you.  Evil  be  to  them  who  treated 
you  in  that  manner ;  they  deserve 
what  has  happened." 

"  No,"  said  Jean-Louis,  "  they 
are  blinded,  that  is  all ;  and  now  I 
have  forgotten  those  words,  said 
without  reflection.  M.  Jacques,  I 
begvof  you  help  me  to  save  Jean- 
nette." 

"  You  will  have  a  fine  reward, 
eh?" 

"  Oh  !  what  is  it  to  me  ?  After 
all,  can  I,  for  a  few  cruel  words, 
lose  the  memory  of  twenty  years  of 
tenderness  and  kindness  ?" 

"  If  you  do  not  have  your  place 
in  heaven,"  said  the  keeper,  raising 
his  shoulders  and  voice  at  the  same 
time,  to  conceal  his  emotion,  which 
was  very  visible,  "  I  think  our  curt 
himself  cannot  answer  for  his. 
Come,  let  us  see  what  we  can  do  to 
save  this  hare-brained  Jeannette. 
In  the  first  place,  to  morrow,  at  the 
latest,  I  intend  that  M.  le  Marquis' 
place  shall  be  cleared  of  those 
rascals  that  encumber  it.  The 
thing  is  easy;  I  will  tell  them  that, 
owing  to  the  bad  weather,  we  will 


postpone  the  clearing  of  the  forest 
until  spring,  as  the  work  advances 
too  slowly,  and  give  them  two 
weeks'  pay  .  .  .  no,  I  won't ;  one 
week  is  enough.  And  then  you — 
you  must  write ;  do  you  hear  ? 
Write.  Writing  remains,  and  scenes 
and  conflicts  are  avoided ;  you  will 
therefore  write  six  lines,  carefully 
worded,  to  Perdreau.  You  will  tell 
him  you  were  at  the  meeting  in  the 
wood  that  night.  How  ?  That  is 
none  of  his  business — it  is  enough 
that  you  were  there ;  then  you  will 
add :  '  I  give  you  three  days  to 
disappear,  after  which  I  will  warn 
the  police.'  And  for  the  expla- 
nation at  Muiceron,  I  will  see  to 
it." 

Jean-Louis  saw  at  once  the  good 
sense  of  this  arrangement,  and 
obeyed  immediately.  In  reality,  it 
was  the  only  means  of  bringing 
things  to  the  best  possible  conclu- 
sion. 

The  next  day  Michou  went  to 
the  wood,  as  usual.  He  found  the 
men  at  their  work,  as  though  no- 
thing had  happened,  and  taking  aside 
old  Blackbeard,  who  appeared  to 
have  some  control  over  his  com- 
panions, he  told  him  very  quietly  of 
his  intention.  Now,  you  will  have 
no  difficulty  in  seeing  that  for  men 
who  reckoned  upon  dividing  a  do- 
main worth  five  hundred  thousand 
crowns  in  a  few  days,  to  be  free 
from  work  and  receive  a  week's  pay 
was  a  clear  and  enticing  advantage. 
Michou  was  applauded ;  and,  but 
that  it  went  against  the  grain,  he 
would  have  had  the  happiness  of 
shaking  hands  with  the  whole  crew. 
But  as  he  was  not  very  desirous  of 
that  pleasure  with  such  a  set,  he 
was  entirely  rewarded  for  his  pains 
by  seeing  them  file  past  him  arm- 
in-arm,  and  watched  them  as  they 
went  down  the  road,  singing  at  the 
top  of  their  lungs. 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


103 


That  same  morning  Jean-Louis' 
letter  left  for  its  destination,  and 
in  the  evening  the  letter-carrier  de- 
posited it  at  the  notary's  house. 

It  has  been  remarked  that  villains 
are  not  brave.  The  good  God, 
who  protects  honest  men  because 
they  scarcely  think  of  defending 
themselves,  has  put  cowardice  in 
the  hearts  of  their  enemies,  and  it 
serves  as  a  rampart  always  raised 
before  virtue,  which  prevents  the 
wicked  blows  of  vice  from  piercing 
it  to  death.  Do  not  be  astonished 
at  that  beautiful  phrase  ;  I  acknow- 
ledge I  am  not  capable  of  invent- 
ing it ;  but,  in  order  that  I  might 
repeat  it  to  you,  I  carefully  copied 
it  from  a  big  book,  full  of  wise  say- 
ings, formerly  lent  to  me  by  the 
Dean  of  Aubiers. 

If  the  lightning  had  fallen  upon 
the  notary's  house,  it  would  not 
have  produced  a  greater  shock 
than  Jeannet's  simple  letter.  The 
Perdreaux,  as  they  were  better 
educated  than  the  mass  of  the  poor 
people,  whom  the  ringleaders  of  the 
revolution  use  for  their  own  pur- 
pose, did  not  doubt  but  there  would 
be  great  trouble  and  an  overthrow 
of  thrones,  but  were  not  the  less  sure 
of  the  universal  division  of  pro- 
perty, which  they  looked  forward  to 
with  such  eagerness.  But  the  safest 
and  strongest  plank  of  salvation  for 
them  was  the  marriage  of  Isidore, 
and  it  was  most  important  that  it 
should  take  place  now,  or  else  the 
prison-doors  would  soon  be  open- 
ed. Old  Perdreau  was  annihilated. 
For  thirty  years  he  had  had  the 
boldness  to  calumniate  his  neigh- 
bors on  every  occasion  ;  he  was  on 
the  eve,  if  he  could,  of  causing  the 
ruin,  and  perhaps  the  death,  of  our 
good  lord  by  delivering  up  his  pro- 
perty and  betraying  his  secrets; 
but  before  this  paper,  which  con- 
tained only  a  few  lines  without 


threats  or  anger,  written  by  a  found- 
ling, he  turned  livid  and  trembled 
with  fright,  and  his  ugly  face,  ordi- 
narily so  bold,  was  covered  with  a 
cold  sweat.  Isidore  also  was  as 
pale  as  he ;  from  time  to  time  he 
read  Jean-Louis'  letter,  crushed  it 
in  his  hand,  trampled  it  under  foot, 
swore  by  the  holy  name  of  the  Lord, 
and  struck  the  tables  and  chairs 
with  his  clenched  fist.  But  that 
did  not  help  the  matter.  The  fa- 
ther and  son  dared  not  speak  to 
each  other.  At  last  Isidore  took 
the  paper  up  again ;  and  as  if  that 
scare-crow,  by  disappearing,  could 
mend  affairs,  he  tore  it  into  a  thou- 
sand pieces.  • 

"  We  are  lost,  lost !"  repeated  old 
Perdreau,  clutching  his  gray  hair 
with  both  his  hands. 

"  That  remains  to  be  seen  !"  cried 
Isidore.  "  Father,  instead  of  sink- 
ing into  such  despair,  you  had  bet- 
ter think  of  some  plan.  It  was  by 
your  order  I  went  to  Montreux.  I 
knew  there  was  no  need  of  such 
hurry." 

"What  could  I  do?"  asked  the 
unhappy  old  man,  ready  to  humili- 
ate himself  before  his  son.  "  We 
were  menaced  on  all  sides." 

"  It  was  only  you  who  saw  all 
that,"  replied  Isidore  harshly  ;  "  I 
always  listened  to  you  too  much." 

"We  can  deny  it  all,"  ventured 
Perdreau. 

"  That  is  easy  to  say.  But  I  am 
not  sure  of  our  men,  if  they  should 
be  questioned.  That  cursed  found- 
ling will  be  believed  before  all  of 
us." 

"  Lost !  lost !"  repeated  the  nota- 
ry, in  the  last  state  of  despair. 

"  We  won't  give  up,"  said  Isidore. 
"  Go  to  bed,  father ;  you  are  in  no 
condition  to  talk.  I  will  reflect  for 
both." 

"Ah!  think  of  something,  no 
matter  what ;  we  must  avert  the 


104 


Farm  of  M nicer  on. 


blow,"  said  old  Perdreau,  as  he 
staggered  to  his  room. 

"Avert  the  blow  !"  repeated  Isi- 
dore ;  "  the  devil  himself  would  not 
succeed — unless — unless  .  .  ;" 

He  paused,  as  if  some  one  would 
listen  to  his  thought.  A  frightful 
idea  entered  his  head,  and  all  that 
night  the  notary,  who  groaned  and 
shivered  with  fever  in  his  bed, 
heard  him  walking  about,  taking 
great  strides  across  the  floor,  whilst 
he  uttered  disconnected  words. 

The  next  day  the  servant  found 
her  masters  in  a  sad  state ;  one 
sick,  almost  delirious,  the  other 
asleep,  all  dressed,  in  a  chair,  with  a 
face  haggard  from  the  effects  of  the 
terrible  night  that  had  just  passed. 

But  two  hours  afterwards,  affairs 
resumed  their  accustomed  train. 
Isidore  bathed  and  changed  his 
clothes,  drank  a  bowl  of  hot  wine, 
in  which  he  poured  a  good  pint  of 
brandy.  He  swallowed  this  com- 
forter, eat  a  mouthful,  and  appeared 
fresh  and  well.  But  an  experienced 
person  would  easily  have  seen  that 
his  eyes  looked  like  balls  of  fire 
under  the  red  lids,  and  that  every 
moment  he  made  a  singular  move- 
ment with  his  shoulders ;  you  would 
have  thought  he  shuddered,  but 
doubtless  that  was  owing  to  the 
heavy  frost  the  night  before. 

He  went  to  see  Jeannette,  as  usu- 
al, and  was  wonderfully  polite ;  the 
little  thing  was  sad,  but  gentle  and 
quiet.  She  willingly  spoke  of  the 
marriage,  of  the  contemplated  jour- 
ney, and  the  presents  she  wished. 
But  yet  it  was  easy  to  see  that 
each  one  of  the  betrothed  was 
playing  a  part  in  trying  to  appear 
at  ease,  and  scarcely  succeeded. 
Jeannette,  in  the  midst  of  a  fine 
phrase,  would  stop  and  look  out 
of  the  window,  and  Isidore  would 
profit  by  the  opportunity  to  fall 
into  a  reverie,  which  certainly  was 


not  suitable  at  such  a  time.  The 
reason  was  that  the  slight  friend- 
ship that  was  felt  on  one  side 
had  taken  wings  and  flown  away ; 
whilst  on  the  other  that  which 
perhaps  might  begin  threatened 
to  be  cut  short  by  circumstances : 
but  whose  fault  was  it  ? 

"As  you  make  your  bed,  so  you 
must  lie,"  said  our  cure,  and  Isi- 
dore, who  had  stuffed  his  with 
thorns,  should  not  have  been  sur- 
prised if  he  felt  them.  No  one 
can  describe,  because,  very  fortu- 
nately, no  one  can  understand,  the 
disordered  state  of  this  unhappy 
young  man's  mind.  He  had  form- 
ed a  resolution  whose  result  you 
will  soon  see  ;  and  on  whatever  side 
he  looked,  he  saw  a  bottomless 
abyss  open  before  his  eyes.  He 
was  afraid — this  yet  can  be  said  in 
his  favor,  for  indifference  to  crime 
is  the  state  of  finished  scoundrels — 
and  he  would  not  now  have  gone 
so  far,  if,  as  we  hope,  he  had  not 
previously  lost  his  senses. 

He  prolonged  his  visit  to  Mui- 
ceron  as  long  as  he  could.  Little 
Jeannette  was  tired  out  and  did  not 
attempt  to  conceal  it,  which  suffi- 
ciently showed  how  much  pleasure 
she  took  in  the  presence  of  her 
future  husband.  She  even  yawned 
two  or  three  times,  which  any  other 
day  he  would  have  resented;  but 
now  it  escaped  his  notice. 

At  nightfall  he  at  last  decided 
to  leave,  and  then  it  could  be  seen, 
by  his  pallor  and  the  manner  that 
he  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow, 
that  the  great  deep  pit  of  which  I 
spoke  caused  him  a  greater  vertigo 
than  ever. 

Nevertheless,  he  started  resolute- 
ly on  the  road  for  the  wood  of 
Montreux,  and,  when  he  was  near 
the  wood-cutters'  retreat,  he  looked 
as  if  he  wished  to  enter  it ;  but  sud- 
denly he  retraced  his  steps,  and 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


105 


afterwards  appeared  so  absent  and 
buried  in  his  own  reflections,  he 
did  not  notice  that  the  cabin  was 
empty,  and  no  work  going  on  in- 
side. 

One  man,  however,  was  walking 
among  the  huge  piles  of  timber, 
half  ready  for  delivery;  it  was 
Michou.  He  at  once  perceived 
Isidore,  and  followed  him  with  his 
eyes  a  long  distance ;  but  it  was  not 
necessary  to  accost  him,  and  he  let 
him  pass  on,  with  the  idea  that  he 
was  seeking  the  high-road  to  Issou- 
dun,  in  obedience  to  the  letter  of 
Jean-Louis. 

"  The  hawk  is  caught,"  said  he 
to  himself.  "Well,  let  him  go  in 
peace,  that  he  may  receive  his  last 
shot  elsewhere." 

During  this  time,  Perdreau  di- 
rected his  steps  towards  the  game- 
keeper's house.  He  easily  entered, 
as  the  door  was  only  closed  by  a 
latch  ;  Michou,  in  his  isolated  abode 
counting  more  on  his  gun,  which  he 
always  kept  loaded  at  his  bedside, 
than  on  the  protection  of  bolts. 

Isidore  knew  that  each  night 
Jeannet  came  to  eat  and  sleep  in 
the  little  house ;  but  he  also  knew 
that  he  worked  until  late  in  the 
night,  and  that  there  was  no  risk 
of  meeting  him  at  this  early  hour. 

As  he  expected,  he  found  the 
idiot  Barbette  alone  in  the  house. 
The  poor  girl  was  preparing  the 
soup  Jean-Louis  was  accustomed 
to  eat  on  returhing  home,  and  near 
her  was  her  dog,  who  never  left 
her,  not  even  at  night,  when  both 
went  out  together  to  sleep  with  the 
sheep. 

She  knew  Isidore,  as  she  had 
seen  him  roaming  around  the  coun- 
try. Except  to  say  good-morning 
and  good-evening,  she  scarcely 
knew  how  to  speak,  and  therefore 
showed  neither  astonishment  nor 
fear,  as  is  the  case  with  children 


deprived   of  reason,   who    are   not 
conscious  either  of  good  or  evil. 

Isidore  sank  into  a  chair  without 
speaking ;  Barbette  nodded  to  him, 
and  continued  stirring  her  stew-pan. 

"  What  are  you  making  there  ?" 
asked  Perdreau,  after  a  few  mo- 
ments' silence. 

The  idiot  burst  out  laughing,  as 
though  the  question  was  very  fun- 
ny. 

"  Soup,"  she  replied,  still  laugh- 
ing loudly. 

"  Is  it  for  your  uncle  ?" 

"  No,  my  uncle  has  dined." 

"  Who  is  it  for.  then  ?" 

"  For  the  other  one." 

"  The  other  one  ?  Is  it  for  Jean- 
Louis  ?" 

"Yes." 
.     "  You  are  very  sure  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes  !"  said  she,  laughing 
louder  than  ever. 

"  Very  good,"  muttered  Isidore 
between  his  teeth.  He  suddenly 
arose,  and  gave  the  dog  a  furious 
kick. 

Barbette  uttered  a  shrill  scream. 
Her  dog  was  her  only  friend  ;  she 
threw  herself  between  Isidore  and 
the  poor  beast,  which  she  clasped 
in  her  arms. 

During  this  movement,  which 
was  very  quick,  the  wretched  Per- 
dreau sprang  towards  the  stove, 
threw  into  the  soup  a  paper  of 
white  powder,  which  he  had  kept 
hidden  in  his  hand,  and  disappear- 
ed in  a  second,  like  one  who  feels 
his  clothes  catching  fire. 

Soon  all  was  again  quiet  and  si- 
lent. Little  Barbette  understood 
nothing,  except  that  the  wicked 
man  who  had  beaten  her  dog  with- 
out any  cause  had  left,  and  that  she 
could  return  to  her  cooking.  She 
recommenced  stirring  her  scup, 
laughing  softly  to  herself,  but  tak- 
ing care,  however,  that  her  dog  was 
close  to  her  side. 


io6 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


Michou  entered  about  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  later.  He  was  fatigued 
with  his  day's  work,  and  thought 
no  more  of  Isidore,  whom  he  be- 
lieved far  away.  Besides,  if  he 
had  given  him  a  thought,  the  idea 
would  never  have  entered  his  head 
to  question  Barbette,  who  was  not 
in  a  condition  to  render  an  account 
of  anybody  or  anything. 

The  game-keeper  had  his  bed 
and  Jeannet's  also  (straw  mattresses, 
laid  on  trestles)  placed  in  a  re- 
cess at  the  end  of  the  room,  so 
that,  upon  retiring,  they  could  draw 
the  curtains,  and  be  as  private  as 
though  in  another  room.  He  un- 
dressed quietly,  and  stretched  him- 
self upon  the  bed  to  take  his  much- 
needed  rest,  knowing  well  that 
Jean-Louis  often  came  in  late,  but 
made  so  little  noise  he  was  never 
disturbed.  . 

A  long  time  passed.  Michou  was 
sleeping  soundly,  when  he  heard 
Barbette  call  him. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked, 
raising  himself  up  in  his  bed. 

v  "  Uncle,"   said    the   poor    idiot, 
"Jean-Louis  has  not  returned." 

"  Well,  what  of  that  ?" 

"  I  am  hungry,"  she  replied,  for 
she  never  ate  supper  until  her  work 
was  finished. 

"  Eat,"  said  Michou.  "  What  is 
there  to  prevent  you?" 

"  Can  I  eat  Jean-Louis'  soup  ?" 
she  asked. 

"  Faith,"  thought  the  game-keep- 
er, "  he  must  have  supped  with  the 
Luguets.  Yes,"  said  he  aloud, 
"  eat,  and  be  off  to  bed." 

Barbette  did  not  wait  to  be  told 
twice.  She  emptied  the  soup  into 
a  bowl,  swallowed  half  of  it  with  a 
good  appetite,  and  gave  the  rest  to 
her  dog. 

Then  she  went  out,  fastening  the 
latch  as  well  as  she  could,  and  Mi- 
chou turned  over  in  his  bed,  where 


he  was  soon  asleep  again,  and  no- 
thing else  happened  to  disturb  him, 
as  Jeannet  that  night  did  not  re- 
turn home. 

XVIII. 

The  night  was  terribly  cold,  and 
the  following  morning  the  sky  was 
dark  and  heavy  from  the  snow  that 
fell  unceasingly  ;  so  that  our  superb 
wood  of  Val-Saint,  so  delightful  in 
summer,  looked  horrible  and  deso- 
late enough  to  make  one  think  of 
death  and  the  grave,  all  around 
was  so  still  and  quiet  in  its  white 
winding-sheet.  Michou,  who  had 
nothing  to  do  after  he  sent  off  the 
workmen,  rose  later  than  usual,  and 
was  rather  astonished  to  see  Jean- 
net's  bed  still  vacant.  It  was  the 
first  time  the  dear  boy  had  slept 
away  from  home  without  giving 
warning.  He  knew  him  too  well  to 
think  that  it  was  from  want  of  at- 
tention :  what  could  have  happen- 
ed? 

He  thought  again  of  Perdreau, 
whom  he  had  seen  roving  around 
the  premises  the  night  before  ;  and 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  the 
game-keeper  felt  a  thrill  of  terror. 

"  The  good-for-nothing  is  capa- 
ble of  anything,"  thought  he ;  "  he 
may  have  watched  for  Jean-Louis 
in  some  out-of-the-way  place  to 
harm  him." 

But  after  this  reflection,  he  reas- 
sured himself  by  thinking  of  Jean- 
Louis'  extraordinary  strength  and 
great  height,  which  surpassed  Isi- 
dore's by  at  least  a  head. 

"  That  puppy  has  no  more  nerve 
than  a  chicken,"  said  he.  "  Jean- 
net  could  knock  him  down  with 
one  blow ;  and  as  for  drawing  a 
pisto*  he  would  be  afraid  of  the 
noise." 

However,  good  Jacques  hurried 
with  his  dressing,  so  that  he  might 
go  to  the  Luguets',  to  inquire  after 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


107 


Jean-Louis.  While  doing  so,  he 
looked  at  his  big  silver  watch, 
which  hung  on  a  nail  by  his  bed- 
side, and  saw  with  astonishment 
that  it  was  nine  o'clock. 

"This  is  something  strange!" 
said  he  ;  "  it  is  the  first  time  in  ten 
years  I  have  slept  so  late." 

He  went  to  the  door,  but,  as  he 
put  out  his  head,  he  was  driven 
back  by  a  whirlwind  of  snow  which 
struck  him  in  the  face,  and  at  the 
same  time  a  man  presented  himself 
upon  the  threshold. 

"  M.  Michou,"  said  the  new- 
comer, who  was  no  other  than  the 
letter-carrier  of  the  commune,  "  it 
is  unfortunate  you  have  some  cor- 
respondent in  this  awful  weather." 

"  That  is  true  !  You  are  not 
very  lucky,"  replied  the  game- 
keeper ;  "  for  this  is  the  first  letter 
you  have  brought  me  in  two  years." 

It  was  from  Jean-Louis,  and  con- 
tained but  a  few  words : 

"M.  JACQUES:  Do  not  be  un- 
easy about  me.  I  am  in  good 
health,  but  I  will  not  return  before 
three  days,  as  I  am  going  to  Paris 
on  important  business. 
"  Your  ever-faithful 

"  JEAN-LOUIS." 

"What  the  devil  can  that  child 
have  to  do  in  Paris?"  thought  Mi- 
chou. "  N^ver  mind,  this  letter  is  a 
great  relief ;  I  would  rather  know 
he  was  off  there  than  here." 

He  gave  the  carrier  a  warm 
drink,  and  conversed  with  him 
some  time  before  the  hearth,  upon 
which  burned  a  good  armful  of  vine- 
branches.  Then,  when  he  had 
taken  his  departure,  the  thought, 
of  Barbette  suddenly  entered  his 
head. 

"  What  is  she  doing  ?"  said  he. 
"  The  poor  child  has  forgotten  my 
breakfast ;  I  suppose  she  has  also 
slept  late." 

He  opened  the  door ;  the  snow 


was  not  falling  quite  so  thick  and 
fast,  and  the  sky  appeared  less 
sombre. 

He  left  the  house,  and  went  to 
the  sheepfold,  to  see  what  had  be- 
come of  his  idiotic  niece. 

Alas  !  If  you  have  listened  to 
me  until  now,  you  can  well  guess 
what  had  taken  place  in  that  gloomy 
night !  And  yet,  upon  entering  the 
enclosure,  nothing  at  first  forebod- 
ed the  misfortune  which  was  about 
to  startle  the  good  game-keeper. 
The  sheep  bleated  and  tumbled 
pell-mell,  climbing  on  one  another's 
backs,  browsing  contentedly  upon 
the  hay  scattered  here  and  there ; 
but  down  at  the  end  of  the  sheep- 
fold,  in  a  little  corner,  poor  Barbette 
was  extended,  stark  dead  and  al- 
ready cold,  the  mouth  half-opened 
and  the  face  rigid  from  its  terrible 
struggle.  Close  to  her,  with  his 
head  laid  across  her  feet,  her  dog 
also  slept,  never  more  to  be  awak- 
ened. 

It  was  evident  the  innocent 
child  had  suffered  fearfully.  Her 
poor  body  seemed  longer  by  three 
inches  than  before,  as  though  the 
limbs  had  been  stretched  in  her 
dreadful  death-struggle.  Her  lit- 
tle, shrivelled  hands  still  clutched 
bunches  of  wool  that  she  must 
have  torn  from  the  sheep  in  her 
agony.  With  all  that,  she  looked 
tranquil  and  at  peace,  as  if  an 
angel  of  the  good  God  had  come  at 
the  supreme  moment  to  bear  away 
her  soul,  exempt  from  sin. 

Michou  fell  on  his  knees  beside 
the  little  dead  body.  He  tried  to 
raise  her,  but  she  was  so  stiff  he 
had  to  move  her  like  a  wooden 
statue.  Certainly,  many  hours  must 
have  elapsed  since  her  death;  the 
dog,  also,  was  frozen  to  the  touch, 
and  as  hard  as  stone.  There  was 
no  doubt  these  two  creatures,  so 
attached  to  each  other  during  life 


io8 


The  Farm  of  M nicer  on. 


had  met  together  a  violent  death 
Nothing  more  remained  to  be  done 
but  to  make  the  necessary  .declara- 
tions and  hold  the  inquest  usual 
in  such  cases.  The  good  man 
bent  over  the  agonized  face  of  the 
child  a  few  minutes ;  one  or  two 
tears  fell  upon  his  gray  beard,  and, 
while  wiping  them  off  with  his  coat- 
sleeve,  he  recited  a  Pater  and  a  De 
Profundis ;  then  he  brought  several 
planks  and  bundles  of  straw,  which 
he  placed  around  the  poor  corpse, 
so  that  the  sheep  should  not  injure 
it  while  playing  around.  lie  left  the 
dog  lying  on  the  feet  of  his  mistress, 
Barbette ;  and  mere  creature,  with- 
out soul,  as  the  good  God  had  made 
him,  he  deserved  this  respect,  hav- 
ing died  faithful  as  he  had  lived. 

Jacques  Michou  left  the  sheep- 
fold,  his  otter-skin  cap  in  his  hand, 
and  on  the  threshold  turned  again 
and  made  another  sign  of  the  cross. 
His  old  heart  was  heavy  with  pain 
from  the  shock;  but  he  did  not 
dream  for  an  instant  of  what  we 
know,  and  at  that  you  must  not  be 
too  much  astonished.  The  good 
man  was  perfectly  honest,  and 
could  not  at  first  conjecture  that  a 
great  crime  had  caused  this  extra- 
ordinary death.  He  rather  imag- 
ined that  Barbette,  who  had  been 
given  to  wandering  around  like  all 
innocents,  had  gathered  some  poi- 
sonous weed,  or  drank  by  mistake 
from  a  vessel  in  which  remedies 
were  prepared  for  the  sheep  when 
afflicted  with  the  mange,  which  are 
always  composed  of  a  decoction  of 
tobacco  or  other  noxious  prepara- 
tion ;  which  cures,  if  applied  exter- 
nally, but  is  certain  death  when 
taken  internally,  if  the  directions  are 
not  followed.  Thus  plunged  in  sad 
and  bitter  meditation,  he  arrived,  al- 
most before  he  knew  it,  at  the  vil- 
lage of  Val-Saint,  and  thought  to 
continue  still  further,  to  warn  Dr. 


Aubry.  "  He  will  be  able  to  tell 
me,"  thought  he ;  "  with  his  learn- 
ing he  can  say  what  killed  the  poor 
child." 

Just  then  he  raised  his  head,  and 
saw  that  he  was  before  the  notary's 
house,  and  recognized  the  doctor's 
horse  and  wagon  before  the  door. 

"  This  is  lucky  !"  thought  he.  "I 
will  find  out  all  the  sooner." 

He  entered  without  having  to 
knock,  probably  because  M.  Aubry, 
who  was  always  absent-minded,  had 
neglected  to  close  the  door,  ordi- 
narily shut  tight ;  so  that  the  game- 
keeper found  himself  standing  in 
the  middle  of  Perdreau's  dining- 
room  before  any  one  had  given  no- 
tice of  his  entrance. 

Isidore  was  there,  so  wan,  and 
haggard,  and  wild-looking,  you 
would  have  doubted,  at  the  first 
glance,  whether  it  was  himself  or 
his  shadow.  There  was  nothing 
terrifying  in  Michou's  aspect;  he 
appeared  sad  and  quiet,  and  only 
wished  to  meet  the  doctor,  that  he 
might  relate  his  lamentable  story. 
But  criminals  see  in  every  one  and 
everywhere  justice  and  vengeance 
ready  to  fall  upon  them.  Isidore 
no  sooner  recognized  the  honest 
game-keeper,  than  he  uttered  a  cry 
of  terror,  and  endeavored  to  es- 
cape. 

That  movement,  the  terrified 
face,  and,  still  further,  we  must  be- 
lieve, the  inspiration  of  the  good 
God,  made  Michou  divine,  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  what  he  had 
not  even  suspected  the  moment  be- 
fore. You  will  understand  me  if 
you  will  only  recall  some  remem- 
brances of  the  past ;  for  surely  you 
must  once  or  twice  in  your  life  have 
experienced  the  same  effect.  An 
event  takes  place — no  one  knows 
which  way  to  turn ;  all  is  dark ; 
suddenly  a  light  breaks  forth,  shed- 
ding its 'brilliant  rays  on  all  around, 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron, 


109 


and  in  an  instant  everything  is  clear 
to  the  mind  :  is  it  not  so  ?  To  ex- 
plain how  this  great  secret  fire  is 
lighted  I  cannot,  but  to  affirm  that 
it  happens  daily  you  must  acknow- 
ledge with  me,  no  matter  how  poor 
your  memory  may  be. 

The  presence  of  Perdreau  the 
evening  before  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  wood  of  Montreux,  his  som- 
bre and  agitated  look  at  the  time, 
the  preceding  letter  of  Jean-Louis, 
finally,  that  soup,  destined  for  an-, 
other  than  Barbette,  and  eaten  by 
her — all  this  passed  in  a  second  be- 
fore the  eyes  of  the  game-keeper, 
like  so  many  actors  playing  in  the 
same  piece.  As  the  truth,  in  all  its 
horror,  flashed  before  him,  his  face 
became  terrible,  and  Isidore,  whose 
eyes,  starting  from  his  head  with 
terror,  glared  fixedly  upon  him, 
saw  this  time,  without  mistake,  his 
judge  and  the  avenger  of  his 
crime. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each 
other  a  moment.  Isidore  advanced 
a  step,  in  the  vague  hope  of  reach- 
ing the  door.  Michou  stepped  back, 
his  arms  crossed,  and  barred  his 
passage. 

"  Let  me  go  out,"  at  last  gasped 
Isidore  between  his  closed  teeth. 

"Wretch  !"  said  the  game-keeper 
in  a  deep  voice,  "  whom  did  you 
come  to  poison  at  my  house  last 
night  ?" 

"Michou,  you  are  crazy! "re- 
plied Isidore ;  "  let  me  out,  or  I  will 
call." 

"  Call  as  loudly  as  you  please," 
answered  Michou,  standing  straight 
and  firm  with  his  back  against  the 
door ;  "  call  Dr.  Aubry,  who  must 
be  somewhere  about.  You  will 
tell  him  that  I  have  come  in  search 
of  him  to  prove  the  death  of  Bar- 
bette, whom  you  killed,  cowardly 
villain  that  you  are  I" 

"  Barbette  !  What  do  you  mean  ? 


You  are  drunk,  Michou,"  stammer- 
ed Isidore,  becoming  each  moment 
more  and  more  livid. 

"  Neither  drunk  nor  crazy,  you 
know  well,  accursed  wretch,"  repli- 
ed Jacques.  "  Your  insults  do  not 
harm  me.  Ha  !  you  were  not  very 
skilful  in  your  crime,  but  you  were 
also  mistaken.  Jean-Louis  is  safe 
and  sound  ;  you  only  killed  a  child 
deprived  of  reason,  and  you  will 
finish  on  a  scaffold;  for  if  I  were 
allowed  to  kill  you  with  my  own 
hand,  I  would  not,  so  as  not  to 
stain  the  hand  of  an  honest  man." 

"  Michou,"  said  Isidore,  his  teeth 
chattering  with  fear,  "have  mercy 
on  me  ;  I  will  explain  myself  later. 
I  am  sick.  .  .  .  My  father  is 
dying.  .  .  .  You  are  not  cruel.  .  .  . 
Let  me  go  out." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  you  are  a  coward.  .  .  . 
Faith,  I  am  glad  of  it;  it  takes 
from  me  the  slightest  compassion 
for  you.  Traitor  !  scoundrel !  you 
were  not  so  much  afraid  yesterday, 
when  you  thought  of  killing  a  brave, 
defenceless  boy.  To-day  it  is  not 
repentance  that  makes  you  tremble, 
but  the  justice  of  men,  who  ivill  not 
spare  you.  You  feel  them  on  your 
heels;  you  are  not  deceived.  I 
have  you;  try  to  stir." 

And  he  seized  him  by  the  arm 
with  so  vigorous  a  hand,  the  wretch 
felt  his  bones  crack. 

"  You  hurt  me  ;  let  me  go  !  " 
yelled  Isidore,  writhing  under  that 
iron  hand. 

"  Shut  up !  Avow  your  crime ;  did 
you  come,  yes  or  no,  to  poison 
Jean-Louis  ?" 

"  He  had  provoked  me.  I  was 
wild,  I  was  mad — let  me  go.  ..." 

"  You  avow  it,  then ;  what  poison 
was  it  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  ;  I  know  nothing 
further.  .  .  .  Michou,  in  the  name  of 
God,  let  me  go.  .  .  ." 

"  Do   you    dare    pronounce   the 


IIO 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


name  of  God  ?"  cried  Michou,  grasp- 
ing him  still  more  firmly.  "  Do  you 
believe,  then,  in  him,  whom  you 
have  blasphemed  since  you  were 
able  to  speak?  You  don't  know 
what  poison  you  used  ?  After  all, 
it  matters  little ;  M.  Aubry  will 
know — yes,  he  and  the  judge  also. 
The  case  is  clear,  and,  if  I  could 
drag  you  myself  before  the  police, 
I  would  only  leave  hold  of  you 
at  the  door  of  the  prison." 

Isidore,  prostrated  and  speech- 
less from  pain — for  Michou,  whose 
strength  was  trebled,  crushed  his 
arm  with  redoubled  force — fell  to 
the  ground  in  the  most  miserable 
state  that  can  be  imagined. 

"  There,"  said  Michou,  pushing 
him  aside  with  his  foot,  "  if  I  did 
not  still  respect  the  mark  of  your 
baptism,  I  would  wish  to  see  you 
die  there  like  a  dog.  Ah  !  you  can 
weep  now !  See  to  what  your  life 
of  debauchery  and  idleness  has, 
brought  you ;  but  you  are  not  ca- 
pable of  understanding  my  words. 
Listen ;  it  is  not  you  that  I  pity,  but 
the  remembrance  of  an  honest  girl, 
who,  to  the  eyes  of  the  neighbor- 
hood, was  your  betrothed,  the  un- 
fortunate creature !  In  the  name 
of  Jeanne  Ragaud,  I  will  save  you 
from  the  scaffold  that  you  deserve  ; 
but  on  one  condition.  .  .  ." 

"  Speak,  speak !  I  will  do  what- 
ever you  wish,"  cried  the  wretch, 
raising  himself  upon  his  knees. 
"  I  promise  you,  Michou ;  but  save 
me!" 

"Miserable  coward!"  said  the 
game-keeper  with  disgust,  "  your 
prayers  and  your  tears  cause  me  as 
much  horror  as  your  crimes.  You 
have  not  even  the  courage  to  play  the 
part  of  a  murderer !  But  what  I 
have  said  I  will  do.  Get  up,  if 
you  have  still  strength  to  stand  on 
your  legs.  Mark  what  I  say.  You 
must  disappear.  I  give  you,  not 


three  days,  like  Jean-Louis,  but 
two  hours,  in  which  I  will  go  and 
remove  the  body  of  your  victim, 
and  warn  the  police.  In  two  hours 
I  will  have  declared  on  oath  that 
Barbette  was  poisoned  by  you,  and 
the  proofs  will  not  be  wanting. 
Do  what  you  please — hide  yourself 
in  a  hole  or  fly.  In  two  hours,  I 
repeat,  the  police  will  be  on  your 
track,  and,  if  the  devil  wishes  to 
save  you,  that  is  his  affair." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Isidore,  rising. 

"  Your  thanks  is  another  insult," 
said  Michou.  He  opened  the  door 
himself,  and  pushed  the  wretch  out- 
side with  such  a  tremendous  blow 
of  his  fist  that  he  stumbled  and  fell 
across  the  threshold. 

Owing  to  the  bad  weather,  the 
village  street  was  deserted.  Michou 
saw  Isidore  disappear  with  the 
quickness  of  a  deer.  He  closed 
the  door  again,  and  sat  down,  rest- 
ing his  head  upon  his  hands,  to 
gather  together  his  ideas. 

"  My  God,"  said  the  excellent 
man,  raising  his  eyes  to  heaven 
with  the  honest  look  of  a  Christian, 
"  perhaps  I  have  done  wrong,  But 
thou  art  powerful  enough  to  repair 
the  effect  of  my  too  great  mercy, 
and  I  have  saved  from  a  disgrace 
that  could  not  be  remedied  thy 
servants,  the  poor  Ragauds." 

All  this  had  not  taken  much 
time,  and  Michou  was  meditating 
upon  the  events  of  that  terrible 
night,  when  he  felt  some  one  strike 
him  on  the  shoulder ;  it  was  M. 
Aubry. 

"  It  is  you,  M.  Jacques  ?"  said  the 
doctor.  "  What  are  you  doing  here, 
old  fellow?" 

"I  was  waiting  for  you,  mon- 
sieur," replied  he  quietly,  for  he 
had  entirely  recovered  his  self- 
possession.  "  Is  any  one  sick  here  ?' 

"  Eh  ?"  said  the  doctor.  "  It  is  the 
old  man,  who  was  seized  with  a 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


in 


fever  yesterday,  and  is  now  deliri- 
ous. His  brain  is  affected.  It  is  an 
attack  which  I  anticipated ;  I  don't 
think  he  will  recover." 

"  So  much  the  better !"  said 
Michou. 

"  What  do  you  say  ?  So  much 
he  better  ?  It  can  be  easily  seen 
he  is  not  in  your  good  graces. 
Faith  !  I  must  say,  if  I  were  not 
his  physician,  I  would  think  the 
same.  I  don't  generally  believe  all 
the  gossip  floating  around ;  we  can 
take  a  little  on  credit,  and  leave 
the  rest ;  but,  in  my  opinion,  M.  le 
Marquis  did  not  place  his  confi- 
dence within  the  pale  of  the  church 
when  he  gave  it  to  that  old  ape ;  he 
may  yet  have  to  repent  of  it.  Well, 
i*nd  you — what  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

"  Come  with  me  to  the  wood  of 
Montreux,"  said  the  game-keeper, 
"  and  I  will  tell  you  on  the  way." 

"  Is  the  case  urgent  ?  Between 
ourselves,  Michou,  if  your  patient 
is  not  in  danger  I  would  like  to 
put  it  off  until  to-morrow.  My 
carriage  is  open,  and  Cocotte  is  not 
rough-shod.  It  is  beastly  weather 
to  go  through  the  forest." 

"  Alas  !  monsieur,"  replied  Jac- 
ques, "  the  patient  who  requires 
you  can  wait  until  the  last  judg- 
ment, for  she  is  dead.  But  I  must 
carry  you  off  all  the  same,  as  this 
death  does  not  seem  natural  to  me, 
and  I  wish  your  opinion." 

"  Let  us  be  off,"  said  M.  Aubry, 
without  hesitating;  "you  can  tell 
me  the  whole  story  as  we  go  along." 

Which  Jacques  Michou  did, 
whilst  Cocotte,  with  her  head  down, 
trotted  along,  not  very  well  pleased 
to  receive  the  snow  full  in  her  face. 

The  poor  beast  excepted,  neither 
of  the  travellers  in  the  wagon  felt 
the  horrible  weather.  The  doctor, 
while  listening  to  the  game-keeper, 
looked  serious  and  severe,  which 
was  not  at  all  his  usual  custom. 


Michou  had  nothing  to  hide.  He 
related  every  detail  of  the  mourn- 
ful story,  without  omitting  any  fact 
or  thought  necessary  to  enlighten 
M.  Aubry.  When  he  came  to 
speak  of  his  terrible  explanation 
with  Isidore  and  the  wretch's  crime, 
the  doctor  swore  a  round  oath, 
which  marked  his  disapproval,  and 
Cocotte  received  such  a  famous 
cut  with  the  whip,  she  started  off 
on  a  furious  gallop. 

"  I  did  not  think  you  were,  at 
your  age,  such  a  snivelling,  senti- 
mental baby  as  that,"  said  he  in  a 
rage.  "  What  were  you  dreaming 
about  ?  To  have  had  your  hand 
on  the  villain,  and  then  to  let  him 
go  !  You  deserve  to  be  locked  up 
in  his  place  !" 

"  Monsieur,"  replied  Michou, 
"what  I  did  I  would  do  again. 
Have  you  thought  that  it  would 
also  have  been  a  frightful  trial' for 
the  Ragauds  ?  Would  they  not  all 
have  been  called  upon  to  testify  ? 
And  think  for  a  moment  what  a 
disgrace  it  would  have  been  foi 
that  unfortunate  young  girl,  who 
was  on  the  eve  of  marrying  the 
scoundrel.  No,  no,  M.  Aubry,  in 
the  bottom  of  your  soul  you  cannot 
blame  me.  Believe  that  the  good 
God  will  bring  it  all  right ;  but  such 
a  scandal  in  our  province,  an  exe- 
cution, perhaps,  in  the  square  of 
Val-Saint — what  shame,  what  mis- 
ery !" 

"  Jeanne  Ragaud  and  her  family 
owe  you  a  fine  taper,"  replied  the 
doctor,  a  little  softened.  "  There  is 
some  truth  in  what  you  say ;  but,  for 
all  that,  I  would  have  been  better 
pleased  to  have  seen  that  danger- 
ous animal  caged  !" 

"  Be  easy,"  replied  Michou  ;  "  he 
will  never  hurt  any  one  else  unless 
himself.  Without  wishing  to  ex- 
cuse him,  I  am  inclined  to  believe 
he  was  out  of  his  mind — pushed 


112 


The  Farm  of  M nicer  on. 


to  extremity  by  the  great  danger 
in  which  Jeannet's  discovery  had 
placed  him.  When  a  man  is  ac- 
customed to  crime,  monsieur,  he 
bears  the  consequences  more  bold- 
ly. I  saw  Isidore  Perdreau  so  com- 
pletely demoralized,  his  crime  was 
written  on  his  brow,  where  I  read 
it  at  the  first  glance,  and  which 
any  one  else  could  have  done  as 
easily  in  my  place.  So  be  convinced, 
neither  God  nor  man  can  blame  me 
for  letting  him  go,  and  I  certainly 
do  not  regret  it." 

"  All  very  well,"  said  the  doctor ; 
"  but  that  would  not  prevent  me 
from  acting  very  differently  if  I 
should  catch  him  this  evening." 

"Nor  I  either,"  replied  Michou; 
"for  if  he  should  fall  under  my 
hand  this  evening,  I  would  see 
clearly  that  the  good  God  did  not 
wish  him  to  be  saved,  at  least  in 
this  world." 

As  he  finished  speaking,  they 
stopped  before  the  sheepfold,  and 
the  doctor,  together  with  Michou, 
entered,  their  heads  uncovered. 
All  was  as  Michou  had  left  it,  only 
that  the  cold  and  the  hours  which 
had  elapsed  had  rendered  the  little 
body  still  stiffer  than  at  the  moment 
of  discovery.  The  effects  of  the 
poison  began  to  appear,  as  great 
black  spots  were  visible  on  the 
face  of  the  dead  girl,  which  gave 
her  such  a  suffering  and  pitiful 
look,  the  tears  fell  from  their  eyes. 

M.  Aubry  had  not  to  examine 
very  much  to  be  convinced  that 
the  poor  idiot  had  been  poisoned 
by  taking  a  dose  of  arsenic  capable 
of  killing  three  men.  As  this  poison 
is  infallible  against  rats,  nearly  all  the 
country  people  obtain  permission 
to  keep  a  small  quantity  on  hand ; 
and  nothing  had  been  easier  than 
for  Isidore  to  take  a  little  from  his 
father's  own  kitchen,  where  the 
servant  complained  of  the  ravages 


of  the  mice  among  the  cheeses  and 
other  provisions.  Thus,  step  by 
step,  everything  was  terribly  brought 
to  light,  and  yet  with  much  simpli- 
city, as  is  always  the  case  with 
events  incontestably  true ;  there- 
fore, it  was  easy  for  M.  Aubry  to 
prepare  his  statements,  affirmations, 
and  declarations  according  to  his 
conscience,  in  the  report  which  he 
read  before  the  official  authori- 
ties. 

One  very  sad  thing,  but  which 
they  scarcely  thought  of  at  the  mo- 
ment, was  to  give  a  rather  more 
decent  bed  than  the  straw  of  the 
sheepfold  to  the  poor  innocent  vic- 
tim. But  this  they  could  not  do,  as 
they  were  obliged  to  let  her  lie  as 
she  was  until  the  arrival  of  the  dis- 
trict attorney,  the  sheriff,  and  the 
chief  of  police. 

Michou  would  willingly  have 
watched  by  her  side,  but  this  was 
not  possible  either.  M.  Aubry  aid- 
ed him  to  construct  a  solid  bar- 
rier of  planks ;  then  they  covered 
the  body  with  a  blanket ;  and  on  the 
breast  the  game-keeper  placed,  with 
profound  respect,  a  cross  made  of 
branches.  This  devout  duty  accom- 
plished, Jacques  Michou  locked  the 
sheepfold,  put  the  key  in  his  pocket, 
and  left  with  the  doctor  to  warn  the 
authorities. 

You  can  imagine  that  in  all  this 
coming  and  going  much  more  time 
had  elapsed  than  the  two  hours 
accorded  to  the  fugitive.  Michou, 
who  desired  it  from  the  bottom  of 
his  heart,  for  the  good  reasons  we 
already  know,  and  which  he  did  not 
regret,  was  not  sorry  at  the  delay. 
M.  Aubry,  on  the  contrary,  growled 
and  stormed,  whipped  Cocotte  with 
the  full  strength  of  his  arm,  and  tried 
to  hurry  up  affairs  with  the  greatest 
diligence.  But  impossibilities  can- 
not be  performed,  and,  with  all  his 
efforts,  the  usual  formalities  in  these 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


sad  circumstances  were  not  fulfilled 
until  late  in  the  afternoon. 

Then  the  news  spread  from 
mouth  to  mouth  as  rapidly  as  the 
waves  of  our  river  during  an  inun- 
dation. The  curious  assembled  in 
the  public  square,  where  the  servants 
of  M.  le  Marquis,  who  never  were 
bothered  with  too  much  work, 
were  the  first  to  appear.  They 
talked,  they  gesticulated,  said  heaps 
of  foolish  things,  mixed  with  some 
words  -of  common  sense.  Our  mas- 
ter learned  from  public  rumor  that 
young  Perdreau  was  suspected,  and 
that  he  had  disappeared.  It  can 
be  easily  understood  that  he  was 
indignant  at  such  a  calumny,  and 
generously  offered  to  guarantee  his 
innocence.  Mademoiselle  wept, 
Dame  Berthe  imitated  her,  and 
these  two  excellent  ladies  wished 
immediately  to  rush  off  to  Jean- 
nette,  to  console  her  in  this  great 
trial.  But  poor  mademoiselle  had 
to  be  content  with  her  benevolent 
wishes,  for  neither  coachman  nor 
footman,  nor  even  a  simple  groom, 
could  be  found ;  all  had  run  off  to 
the  wood  of  Montreux  in  search  of 
news. 

-  As  they  were  obliged  to  pass  Mui- 
ceron to  reach  the  wood,  you  may 
well  imagine  that  more  than  one  of 
the  hurried  crowd  lagged  behind  to 
,  talk  to  the  Ragauds,  and  thus  they, 
in  their  turn,  heard  of  the  terrible 
affair.  The  consternation  was  un- 
paralleled, for  there,  as  at  the  cha- 
teau, no  one  would  believe  the  wick- 
ed rumors  afloat  concerning  Isidore. 
Jeannette,  who  cared  but  little  for 
her  intended  husband,  and  had  de- 
sired to  be  freed  from  her  engage- 
ment, was  indignant  as  soon  as  she 
thought  he  was  in  trouble,  and  de- 
fended him  warmly,  which  made 


people  believe  she  loved  him  de- 
votedly. The  truth  was,  this  little 
creature's  soul  was  generous  and 
high-strung,  and,  like  all  such  na- 
tures, she  defended  him,  whom  she 
willingly  would  have  sent  off  the 
night  before,  only  because  she 
thought  he  was  unfortunate. 

But  days  passed,  and  each  one 
brought  new  and  overwhelming 
proofs  of  the  truth.  The  police 
searched  the  neighborhood  in  vain, 
and  soon  all  hope  of  seeing  Isidore 
reappear  (which  would  have  pleaded 
in  his  justification)  faded  from  the 
eyes  of  those  who  wished  to  defend 
him.  M.  le  Marquis,  after  having 
conversed  with  M.  Aubry,  Michou, 
and  the  judicial  authorities,  was 
overcome  with  grief,  and  acknow- 
ledged that  he  could  not  conscien- 
tiously mix  himself  up  with  the  af- 
fair. As  for  old  Perdreau,  he  never 
recovered  his  consciousness,  and 
died  shortly  after.  They  placed' 
the  seals  on  his  house,  where,  later, 
they  discovered  the  documents  and 
correspondence  which  revealed  his 
wicked  life  ;  and  now  you  can  judge 
if  there  was  anything  to  gossip  about 
in  a  commune  as  peaceable  and 
tranquil  as  ours.  In  the  memory 
of  man  there  had  never  been  such 
a  terrible  event,  and  nothing  will 
ever  happen  again  approaching  to 
it,  I  devoutly  wish. 

Mademoiselle,  who  was  not  very 
well,  was  seriously  injured  by  all 
this  trouble ;  and  as  M.  le  Marquis 
loved  her  dearly,  and,  besides, 
heard  the  rumbling  of  the  revolu- 
tion in  the  capital  which  he  had  so 
long  ardently  desired,  packed  up,, 
and  was  soon  off,  bag  and  baggage,, 
for  Paris,  where  he  hoped  to  dis- 
tract poor  mademoiselle,  and  drive 
off  mournful  recollections. 


The  Farm  of  M nicer  on. 


XIX. 

Now,  to  quiet  youi  mind — for  you 
must  be  as  shocked  as  I  am  at  all 
these  horrors — we  will  speak,  if  you 
please,  of  our  friend  Jean-Louis. 
On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  which 
proved  the  last  for  the  innocent 
Barbette,  Jeannet,  knowing  that  the 
wood-cutters  would  be  dismissed, 
and  that  consequently  he  would 
have  some  leisure  time,  went  off  to 
the  Luguets'  to  have  a  little  con- 
soling conversation  with  good 
Solange.  He  kept  no  secrets  from 
her,  and  expected  great  relief  in 
recounting  faithfully  all  that  had 
happened  ;  but,  on  entering,  he  in- 
stantly perceived  something  new 
had  occurred  in  the  house.  The 
men  were  out  at  work ;  Mme.  Lu- 
guet  was  seated  by  the  fire,  weeping 
bitterly ;  and  Solange,  sitting  on  a 
stool  at  her  feet,  was  speaking  to 
her  in  an  angelic  voice  of  her  de- 
sire to  enter  a  convent.  Jeannet 
discreetly  wished  to  withdraw. 

"  Don't  go,"  said  Solange  to  him ; 
"  isn't  it  so,  mother  ?  Jeannet  will 
not  disturb  us  ?" 

"  No,  dear ;  on  the  contrary,  my 
child,  I  am  happy  to  see  you,  Jean- 
Louis.  Is  it  true  that  you  will  be  free 
to  accompany  Solange  to  Paris  ?" 

"  Alas  !  Mme.  Luguet,"  replied 
Jeannet,  "  why  should  I  not  be  free, 
having  neither  family  nor  friends, 
save  only  you  and  yours  ?  The 
only  roof  that  sheltered  me  from 
infancy  is  henceforward  forbidden 
to  me,  without  counting  that,  be- 
fore many  hours,  the  only  thing 
that  I  can  call  my  own — on  condi- 


tion that  God  leaves  it  to  me — and 
that  is  my  life,  may  be  taken  also." 

"What  has  happened?"  asked 
Solange.  "  You  speak  in  a  quiet, 
serious  tone  that  frightens  me." 

"  I  have  done  my  duty,  dear  So- 
lange, and  often  in  this  world,  after 
performing  an  act  of  conscience 
and  justice,  any  consequence  may 
be  expected." 

And  he  related  that,  having  dis- 
covered the  criminal  dealings  of 
Isidore  with  the  brigands  of  La 
Martine,  he  had  been  obliged  to 
threaten  the  future  husband  of 
Jeannette,  and  give  him  warning 
that  he  must  leave  the  country. 

"But,"  cried  Solange,  "that  is 
just  what  I  hoped;  this  fortunate 
event  divine  Providence  has  allow- 
ed, that  Jeannette  might  be  saved. 
Rejoice,  then,  Jeannet,  instead  of 
indulging  in  such  gloomy  ideas." 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  think 
so,"  replied  Jean-Louis  sadly  ;  "  but 
I,  Solange,  see  things  differently. 
Jeannette,  already  so  irritated,  will 
not  pardon  me  for  saving  her  at 
the  expense  of  Isidore,  who  is  not 
the  man  to  let  himself  be  crushed 
like  a  wolf  caught  in  a  snare. 
Much  will  be  said  against  me;  I 
will  be  rashly  judged,  and  less  than 
ever  will  I  have  the  right  to  present 
myself  at  Muiceron.  No,  no ;  from 
that  dear  spot  I  am  for  ever  sepa- 
rated. I  have  been  already  accus- 
ed of  jealousy ;  shall  I  expose  my- 
self to  Jeannette's  reproaches  that 
I  have  denounced  Isidore  to  pre- 
vent her  marriage  ?" 

"I  acknowledge,"  said   Solange, 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


'*  that  your  reflections  are  just. 
The  truth  will  one  day  be  known, 
but  it  will  take  time ;  I  see  it  as 
well  as  you." 

"  I  must  expect  the  vengeance  of 
the  Perdreaux,"  continued  Jean- 
Louis,  "  as  well  as  of  their  friends, 
whose  violent  passions  I  know,  and 
who  will  not  leave  me  in  peaceable 
possession  of  their  secrets.  Michou 
has  discharged  the  workmen  ;  ap- 
parently, they  went  off  contented. 
But  Isidore,  meanwhile,  received  my 
letter;  no  doubt  before  this  he 
has  communicated  it  to  his  cut- 
throat companions,  and  the  easiest 
thing  for  all  of  them  will  be  to  get 
rid  of  me  at  the  shortest  notice." 

"  My  God  !"  said  Solange,  "  why 
didn't  you  think  of  all  that  before 
writing  the  letter  ?  At  least,  you 
need  not  have  signed  it." 

"  I  thought  of  all  that,"  replied 
Jeannet,  smiling ;  "  but  even  if  I 
had  been  sure  of  risking  my  life  in 
saving  Jeannette,  I  would  not  have 
stopped.  Her  father  and  mother 
preserved  my  existence,  Solange, 
and  theiefore  it  belongs  to  them. 
And  as  for  not  signing  such  a  letter, 
thank  God !  you  think  so  because 
you  are  a  woman,  that  you  love 
me,  and  that  you  feel  I  am  in  dan- 
ger ;  but  if  you  were  in  my  place, 
you  would  think  as  I  do." 

"  My  children,"  said  Mme.  Lu- 
guet,  "  you  are  both  right.  But  my 
advice  is  that  just  now  you  had 
better  plan  for  the  future  than  dis- 
cuss the  past." 

"  Tell  us  what  shall  be  done, 
mother,"  said  Solange.  "  In  the 
first  place,  Jean-Louis  must  not  re- 
turn to  the  wood  to-night;  isn't 
that  so  ?" 

"  Don't  think  of  such  a  thing," 
cried  Jeannet,  as  he  rose  hastily 
from  his  chair.  "  Did  I  come  here 
to  hide?" 

"  Be    still,"   said    Solange    with 


authority;  "don't  be  so  proud.  We 
all  know  you  are  brave ,  who,  then, 
can  accuse  you  of  flying  from  dan- 
ger? But  courage  does  not  consist 
in  throwing  yourself  headlong  in 
the  midst  of  it,  but  in  providing 
,  against  it." 

"  I  will  return,"  said  Jeannet, 
"  Michou  expects  me." 

"  You  will  not  return,  my  child," 
said  Mme.  Luguet.  "  I  will  direct 
you  for  one  day  ;  my  age  and  friend- 
ship permit  me.  I  order  you  to 
remain  with  us  to-night." 

"But,"  said  Jean-Louis,  "to- 
morrow the  danger  will  be  still 
greater ;  and,  my  good  mother,  you 
surely  cannot  count  on  keeping  me 
a  prisoner  ?" 

"  When  you  came  in,"  said  the 
good  woman,  "  Solange  was  asking 
my  permission  to  leave  home.  It 
was  very  painful  for  me  to  decide, 
and  I  sought  to  gain  time  from  the 
good  God — a  little  time  only,  to  be- 
come more  courageous;  for  never 
will  I  be  so  bold  as  to  refuse  to 
give  my  child  to  the  Lord.  Well, 
what  you  have  just  related  makes 
me  think  the  good  God  has  direct- 
ed all  with  his  own  voice.  My 
dear  children,  you  will  leave  to- 
morrow." 

Solange  threw  herself  on  her 
knees,  and  laid  her  head  on  her 
mother's  hands,  which  she  kissed, 
weeping.  Jean-Louis  turned  pale. 
His  courage,  which  prompted  him 
to  face  the  danger,  and  his  desire 
to  oblige  his  friends,  struggled 
violently  in  his  heart. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  said  he.  "  I  gave 
my  word  to  Solange  that  I  would 
accompany  her ;  but  circumstances 
have  changed  since  then.  Cannot 
Pierre  take  my  place  ?  They  have 
gossiped  about  Solange  and  me, 
dear  Mme.  Luguet ;  what  will  they 
say  when  they  hear  we  have  gone 
off  together?" 


n6 


The  Farm  of  Mincer  on. 


"Pierre!"  cried  Solange ;  "but 
he  knows  nothing,  nor  my  father 
either.  My  mother  alone  has  my 
secret ;  otherwise,  it  would  be  im- 
possible for  me  to  leave." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Mme.  Luguet ; 
"  my  men  are  good  Christians,  but 
not  pious  enough  to  understand 
Solange's  wishes.  However,  with 
the  blessing  of  God,  I  will  manage 
them.  It  is  decided  that  I  will  tell 
the  father  she  has  only  gone  for  a 
fortnight,  to  see  how  she  likes  it ; 
there  will  be  a  fuss  at  first,  and 
then  we  will  go  to  see  her ;  and  if, 
as  I  believe,  the  good  God  will 
take  her  entirely  to  himself,  then 
the  sight  of  her  happiness  will 
satisfy  all  our  hearts." 

Thus  spoke  that  good  Christian 
woman  ;  and  to  the  shame  of  many 
great  ladies  of  the  city,  who  show 
themselves  so  unreasonable  under 
similar  circumstances,  I  must  say, 
with  truth,  she  was  not  the  only  one 
in  our  village  you  might  have  heard 
,»peak  in  the  same  manner. 

Jean-Louis  could  urge  no  further 
objection.  The  public  stage,  which 
would  carry  them  to  the  nearest 
railway  station,  passed  the  Luguets' 
house  every  morning  at  six  o'clock. 
At  that  time  of  year,  it  was  still 
dark,  and  the  men,  who  rose  at  four, 
that  they  might  go  to  the  barn  and 
comb  the  hemp,  went  to  bed  very 
early  in  the  evening.  Pierre  and 
his  father  entered  and  supped,  with- 
out anything  being  said  before 
the'm,  and  Solange  and  her  mother 
found  themselves  again  alone  with 
Jeannet  as  the  village  clock  struck 
eight. 

It  was  then  that  Jeannet  wrote 
the  short  note  to  Jacques  Michou 
which"  we  have  already  read;  he 
ran  and  placed  it  in  the  box  in  the 
suburbs  of  the  village,  and  quickly 
returned,  as  Solange  had  told  him 
she  would  be  half  dead  with  fear 


during  his  absence,  and  that  she 
would  pass  the  time  on  her  knees, 
saying  her  rosary. 

You  see  it  was  very  evident  the 
Lord  and  his  angels  watched  over 
these  good  people.  At  this  very 
hour,  when  it  would  have  been  so 
easy  to  have  attacked  Jean-Louis, 
he  came  and  went  through  the 
wood,  without  incurring  any  risk, 
while  the  unfortunate  Isidore  use- 
lessly committed  a  great  crime. 

Good  Mme.  Luguet  and  her 
daughter  remained  up  until  late  in 
the  night,  busy  making  up  Solange's 
little  bundle,  in  praying,  and  often 
embracing  each  other,  mingling 
their  tender  and  holy  kisses  and 
tears.  Jeannet  aided  them  to  the 
best  of  his  ability,  admiring  the 
courage  of  heart,  which  was  worth 
more  than  that  of  the  head  and 
arms.  Then  the  two  women  retired 
for  a  little  rest,  and  he,  in  his  turn, 
ended  by  falling  asleep  in  his  chair. 

At  five  o'clock,  Solange  came 
herself  to  awaken  him,  and  told 
him,  in  a  low  voice,  that  she  had 
made  her  poor  mother  promise  the 
night  before  not  to  get  up,  and  so 
she  had  just  kissed  her  softly  for 
the  last  time  without  disturbing 
her  sleep.  At  that  instant  could 
be  seen  the  heroism  of  that  holy 
soul  in  thus  wishing  to  bear  alone 
the  weight  of  the  sacrifice.  Her 
face,  without  ceasing  to  be  calm, 
was  bathed  in  tears,  and  from  time 
to  time  she  kissed  a  little  crucifix 
suspended  from  her  neck,  in  order 
to  sustain  her  brave  heart. 

"  Come,"  said  she  at  last,  "  it  is 
time,  Jeannet;  let  us  say  the  Our 
Father  together,  and  then  we  will 
leave." 

"Courage,  Solange,"  said  Jean- 
Louis,  much  moved  ;  "  the  good 
God  will  bless  you." 

They  repeated  the  prayer,  and 
went  out  noiselessly,  and  just  then 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


117 


was  heard  the  jingling  of  the  bells 
on  the  horses  of  the  country  stage. 

Solange  was  well  wrapped  up  in 
her  black  cloth  cloak,  with  the  hood 
drawn  down  over  her  face.  Jean- 
Louis  carried  her  little  bundle,  in 
which  she  had  slipped  two  of 
Pierre's  shirts  ;  for  the  good  Jeannet 
carried  all  his  baggage  on  his  back — 
to  wit,  a  woollen  vest,  a  blouse,  and 
his  plaid  scarf.  But,  as  we  have  al- 
ready seen,  it  was  not  his  habit  to 
think  of  himself. 

They  arrived  safely  at  Paris 
that  very  day,  rather  late  in  the 
evening,  to  be  sure ;  and  little  did 
they  dream  of  the  great  rumpus 
going  on  at  that  very  time  in  our 
poor  neighborhood.  All  along  the 
route  the  strong  family  resemblance 
between  Solange  and  Jeannet  made 
every  one  think  them  brother  and 
sister ;  and  by  good  luck,  owing  to 
the  severity  of  the  weather,  none 
of  the  travellers  in  the  coach  be- 
longed to  the  village  or  its  environs, 
so  that  they  reached  the  station 
without  the  risk  of  being  recog- 
nized. 

The  Sister-Superior  of  the  Sisters 
of  Charity  had  been  notified  several 
days  before  of  the  coming  of  So- 
lange by  our  curt,  who  was  the 
good  child's  confessor ;  but  they 
had  left  home  so  suddenly,  Jeannet 
was  obliged  to  find  a  refuge  for  his 
companion  the  first  night.  Happi- 
ly, in  Paris  all  is  at  your  service — 
people  and  things — where  there  is 
money,  and  our  children  were  rich 
with  Solange's  savings ;  therefore, 
there  was  no  difficulty  in  finding 
respectable  lodgings,  where  they 
passed  the  night  in  two  beautiful 
rooms,  well  furnished,  the  like  of 
which  they  had  never  thought  ex- 
isted, at  least  for  their  use. 

The  next  day  their  first  action 
was  to  go  and  hear  Mass,  after 
which,  having  inquired  the  way  to 


the  Convent  of  S.  Vincent  de  Paul, 
which  is  situated  in  a  very  pious 
quarter  of  the  city,  they  went  there 
with  hearts  rather  saddened ;  and 
one  hour  later  Jeannet  found  him- 
self alone  in  the  vast  city. 

But  no  one  is  alone  in  this  world 
when  he  carries  in  his  heart  faith 
in  the  Lord.  All  the  children  of 
God  belong  to  one  family,  and  feel 
in  their  souls  a  fraternal  tender- 
ness for  each  other.  Jeannet,  on  tak- 
ing Solange  to  the  convent,  found 
a  mother  in  the  good  superioress, 
who  received  them  both.  She 
made  him  relate  his  story  to  her  in 
a  few  words,  and,  learning  that  he 
was  alone  in  the  world  and  desi- 
rous of  some  engagement,  she  gave 
him  the  address  of  a  good  priest 
who  passed  his  life  in  aiding  young 
working-men  who,  owing  to  unfor- 
tunate circumstances  or  lack  of 
employment,  ran  the  risk  of  becom- 
ing dissipated  from  the  want  of  a 
helping  hand. 

He  was  called  Abbe  Lucas ;  and 
as  he  is  now  dead,  and  enjoying,  I 
trust,  the  celestial  happiness  well 
merited  by  his  great  devotion,  I  do 
not  think  it  indelicate  to  tell  his 
name. 

He  received  Jeannet  with  great 
kindness,  and  the  good  boy  soon 
won  his  heart  with  his  frankness 
and  amiability.  The  abbe  tried 
his  hand,  and  seeing  that  he  wrote 
well,  and  turned  off  a  very  good 
letter  under  dictation,  advised  him 
not  to  think  of  joining  a  regiment, 
as  the  conscription  would  be  after 
him  soon  enough  without  his  run- 
ning to  seek  it.  Therefore,  he  took 
him  in  his  own  house,  and  employ- 
ed him  with  his  correspondence,  of 
which  there  was  never  any  deficien- 
cy, owing  to  the  great  number  of 
men  who  daily  claimed  his  charita- 
ble assistance. 

The  arrangement   was   perfectly 


n8 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


to  Jeannet's  taste,  who  applied  him- 
self to  his  new  occupation  with 
joy  and  confidence;  and  you  can 
well  imagine  that  Solange  was  very 
happy,  and  redoubled  her  prayers 
that  her  dear  school-fellow  might 
come  as  triumphantly  out  of  his 
heart-troubles  as  he  had  been 
preserved  from  the  dangers  that 
threatened  his  life. 

She  immediately  wrote  home,  in- 
forming M.  le  Cure  of  all  these 
little  events,  but  left  it  to  his  great 
wisdom  to  decide  whether  he 
should  tell  more  or  less  of  every- 
thing to  the  Ragaud  family,  Michou, 
and  M.  le  Marquis.  This  should 
make  us  thoroughly  understand  the 
true  virtue  of  this  good  child ;  for 
she  had  not  been  ignorant  of  the 
base  insinuations  made  in  relation 
to  her  and  Jean-Louis,  and  what 
ugly  conjectures  would  be  based 
upon  their  departure,  Pierre  joining 
with  the  rest,  at  least  at  the  first 
news.  These  things  go  straight  to 
the  heart  of  a  good,  honest  girl,  and 
Solange,  being  of  a  quick,  nervous 
ttmperament,  had  suffered  martyr- 
dom from  all  this  gossip  without 
speaking  of  it,  except  to  God.  It 
was  to  him,  then,  that  she  remitted 
the  care  of  her  full  justification,  as 
she  knew  many  persons  would  not 
have  believed  anything  she  might 
have  said.  This  beautiful  tranquil- 
lity of  soul  is  not  an  ordinary  thing, 
and  our  cure  judged  rightly  that  it 
proceeded  from  great  holiness,  as 
in  the  end  he  did  not  fail  to  speak 
of  it,  with  profit  to  his  hearers,  in 
his  Sunday  sermons. 

This  excellent  pastor,  who  had 
been  careful  to  keep  clear  of  the 
whole  affair  before  the  downfall  of 
the  Perdreaux,  contenting  himself 
with  praying  and  awaiting  the 
good  pleasure  of  the  Lord,  reap- 
peared like  an  angel  of  consolation 
when  nothing  was  left  but  tears  to 


wipe  away,  hatreds  to  calm,  sim- 
pletons to  make  hold  their  tongues, 
and  truths  to  make  known.  It 
was  wonderful  to  see  how  he  for- 
got his  great  age  and  infirmities  to 
fulfil  his  task,  which  was  not  the 
easiest  in  the  world. 

With  the  chateau  it  was  quickly 
done.  In  a  conversation  of  two 
hours  with  M.  le  Marquis,  who 
was  a  man  of  great  good  sense — 
except  in  what  touched  his  political 
hopes — he  made  the  scales  fall  from 
his  eyes, and  decided  his  departure; 
and  as,  after  all  the  villany  of  the 
Perdreaux,  our  master's  fortune  had 
not  suffered  as  much  as  might  have 
been  expected — as  it  was  very  great, 
and  could  have  stood  a  much 
larger*  rent — our  good  pastor  reserv- 
ed his  pity  and  real  work  for  a 
corner  of  the  country  where  it  was 
infinitely  more  needed. 

You  can  guess  that  I  wish  to 
speak  of  Muiceron.  There  truly 
sorrow,  shame,  and  unhappiness 
were  at  their  height. 

So  many  blows  at  once  had 
crushed  the  Ragauds,  who  no 
longer  dared  go  out,  and  remained 
at  home,  devoured  with  grief.  The 
old  farmer,  struck  on  the  tender 
side  of  his  pet  sin,  which  was  vanity, 
thought  really  that  heaven  and 
earth  had  fallen  upon  his  shoulders, 
and  that  he  should  only  leave  his 
home  for  the  cemetery.  Pierrette, 
long  accustomed  to  receive  implicit- 
ly her  husband's  opinions,  thought 
also  nothing  wiser  could  be  done ; 
and  as  for  Jeannette,  overwhelmed 
with  grief  to  see  herself  abandoned 
by  all  her  friends  at  the  same  time, 
although  apparently  the  strongest, 
it  looked  as  though  she  would  go 
the  first  to  the  grave,  so  plainly  did 
her  pallor  and  hollow  eyes  show 
the  ravages  of  internal  grief. 

All  the  joy  and  life  of  rural  labor 
had  disappeared  from  around  this 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


119 


house,  formerly  so  happy.  The 
door  was  closed,  the  shutters  also, 
save  one  or  two  in  the  back  rooms, 
where  these  poor  people  kept  them- 
selves hidden,  afraid  to  speak,  as 
they  knew  one  subject  of  conversa- 
tion was  alone  possible,  and  just 
then  no  one  would  approach  it. 
The  passers-by,  seeing  the  house 
shut  up,  and  not  supposing  all  the 
inhabitants  were  dead,  ended  by 
feeling  uneasy  as  they  passed  the 
buildings,  but  not  one  ventured  to 
inquire  about  them,  not  even  Ra- 
gaud's  most  intimate  acquaintances. 
It  is  only  truth  to  add  that  these, 
understanding  well  the  sorrow  that 
reigned  within  those  silent  walls, 
acted  thus  from  respect,  and  not 
from  indifference. 

Big  Marion  went  twice  a  week 
to  the  market  in  Val-Saint,  to  buy 
provisions  needed  for  immediate 
use,  and  returned  at  a  gallop,  to 
shut  herself  up  with  her  master's 
family. 

Sinc"e  Muiceron  had  belonged  to 
the  Ragauds,  it  was  certainly  the 
first  time  any  food  had  been  cook- 
ed but  the  beef  and  poultry  raised 
and  killed  on  the  place.  Poor 
Pierrette,  like  all  good  housekeep- 
ers, had  always  prided  herself 
upon  supplying  the  table  with  the 
fruit  of  her  labors ;  for  with  us,  a 
farmer's  wife  who  buys  even  a 
pound  of  butter  or  loaf  of  bread 
passes,  with  good  reason,  for  a 
spendthrift ;  but,  alas  !  self-love  was 
no  longer  thought  of,  and  La  Ra- 
gaude  cared  little  what  was  said  of 
her  management,  after  she  knew 
tongues  could  wag  about  affairs  of 
much  greater  importance.  Poor 
woman !  she  must  have  been  fear- 
fully depressed.  Judge  how  the 
chickens  ran  wild,  scratching  up 
the  gravel  during  the  day,  and 
perching  on  the  trees,  stiff  with 
snow,  during  the  night,  at  the  risk 


of  freezing.  The  pig,  so  fat  it 
could  no  longer  stand  on  its  legs — 
as  for  a  fortnight  its  true  place 
would  have  been  in  the  salt-tub — 
continued  uselessly  to  eat  his  al- 
lowance. The  hens  that  recom- 
menced to  lay  .deposited  their  eggs 
at  random,  without  any  one  taking 
the  trouble  to  go  after  them,  not- 
withstanding the  little  coricoco  of 
warning,  which  showed  that  they 
never  failed  to  cluck  at  the  right 
time  most  faithfully.  But  Marion 
could  not  see  after  everything  ;  and 
besides,  as  she  had  always  been 
very  stupid  during  the  time  that 
all  were  well  and  happy  at  Mui- 
ceron, she  became  more  and  more 
stupid  and  bewildered  after  affairs 
went  so  badly. 

Such  was  the  miserable  condi- 
tion in  which  our  cure  found  his 
old  friends  on  the  first  visit  which 
he  made  them,  about  two  weeks 
after  Barbette's  funeral,  with  the 
sole  object  of  raising  them  from 
the  deep  despondency  into  which 
they  had  fallen  since  the  terrible 
shock. 

Pierrette  received  him  in  the  big 
parlor,  which  was  very  dark,  as  the 
shutters  were  closed,  and  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  he  could  get 
nothing  out  of  her  but  sobs  ;  then 
Ragaud  came  in,  looking  thin 
and  miserable,  as  much  from  want 
of  air  and  exercise  as  from  shame ; 
and  finally  Jeannette,  who,  with  a 
remnant  of  her  old  pride,  tried  to 
keep  from  weeping,  but  was  nearly 
suffocated  in  the  effort. 

"  My  children,"  said  the  dear, 
good  man,  "  God  tries  those  whom 
he  loves,  and  I  certainly  do  not  ap- 
prove of  your  shutting  yourselves 
up  in  this  manner,  so  as  to  avoid 
the  society  of  your  neighbors  and 
friends,  on  account  of  a  sentiment 
which  doubtless  you  think  good, 
but  which  I  call  honor  ill  placed — 


120 


The  Farm  of  Mniceron. 


that   is   to    say,   wicked    pride,   to 
speak  frankly." 

"Alas!"  said  Pierrette,  "who 
wishes  to  speak  to  us  now  ?" 

"Whom  have  you  offended?"  re- 
plied the  curt.  "  And  why  has  the 
esteem  in  which  you  have  long 
been  held  diminished  ?" 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Ragaud,  "  my 
daughter  was  on  the  point  of  marry- 
ing a  revolutionist  and  an  assassin. 
That  is  enough  to  kill  a  family  like 
ours." 

"  I  acknowledge,"  said  the  curt 
quietly,  "  you  could  have  made  a 
better  choice ;  but,  in  reality,  since 
all  has  ended  without  your  playing 
any  other  part  in  this  unfortunate 
affair  than  that  of  victims,  I  do 
not  see  why  you  should  hide  your- 
selves from  the  eyes  of  the  world 
as  though  you  were  criminals." 

"  As  for  me,"  said  Ragaud,  "  I 
can  never  reappear  again  in  public, 
and  support  the  looks  and  words 
of  the  people  around,  who  certain- 
ly despise  us."  . 

"  Ragaud," replied  the curJ,"  when 
a" man's  shoe  hurts  him,  he  usually 
sits  down  by  the  roadside,  and 
looks  to  see  whether  it  is  a  thorn 
or  a  flint  that  causes  the  pain  ;  then 
he  takes  it  out,  and  all  is  over. 
But  if,  instead  of  that,  he  continues 
walking,  his  foot  would  swell,  the 
wound  would  inflame,  and  the  cure 
would  no  longer  be  easy.  Do  you 
understand  me  ?" 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Ragaud. 

"  Nor  I  either,"  added  Pierrette, 
still  continuing  to  weep. 

"Well,"  said  M.  le  Cure,  "it 
means  that  a  wise  man  like  you 
who  fears  anything  of  that  kind 
should  seek  after  the  cause,  to  see  if 
by  9hance  it  would  not  be  as  easy 
to  drive  such  an  idea  out  of  his 
head  as  to  take  a  thorn  out  of  a 
shoe.  And,  between  ourselves,  it 
is  precisely  your  case.  Far  from 


despising  you,  each  and  every  one 
in  the  neighborhood  only  feels  for 
you  compassion,  sympathy,  and 
kindness,  which  they  would  willing- 
ly show  in  words  and  actions.  I 
am  constantly  asked  about  you, 
and  all  desire  you  to  return  to  the 
common  life.  They  do  not  come 
to  disturb  you,  through  pure  dis- 
cretion ;  but  for  which,  your  house 
would  be  well  filled.  But  as  long 
as  you  live  like  wolves  in  their  den, 
the  pain  increases  in  your  heart, 
and  soon  it  will  be  with  you  as 
with  the  man,  wounded  in  the  foot, 
who  will  continue  to  walk — you 
cannot  be  cured." 

"  M.  le  Cure  is  right,"  said 
Jeanne;  "we  must  reappear,  dear 
father." 

•  "  Without  counting,"  resumed 
the  pastor,  "  that  you  are  not  act- 
ing as  Christians  when  you  show 
so  much  pride.  A  Sunday  has 
passed,  and  you  were  not  seen  at 
Mass,  and  nevertheless  it  is  an  ob- 
ligation. Do  you,  then,  intend  to 
neglect  your  religious  duties  ?" 

"  I  would  go  to  church  if  no  one 
were  there,"  said  Ragaud. 

"  Is  it  you,  my  friend,  whom  I 
hear  speak  thus?"  replied  the  curt 
sadly.  "  So  you  prefer  the  esteem 
of  men  to  the  blessing  of  God  ? 
And  you,  Pierrette,  whom  I  have 
always  known  as  such  a  good  par- 
ishioner, have  you  the  same  miser- 
able ideas  ?" 

The  Ragauds  lowered  their 
heads  without  replying.  They 
felt  they  were  wrong,  especially  for 
the  bad  example  given  their  daugh- 
ter. Little  Jeanne,  on  her  side. 
came  to  a  resolute  decision. 

"  Father  and  mother,"  said  she. 
"  M.  le  Cure  makes  me  understand 
all  my  sins ;  for  it  is  on  my  account 
you  are  thus  borne  down  with  grief. 
I,  then,  must  be  the  first  to  trample 
pride  under  foot.  Well,  then,  \ 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


121 


will  go  to  Val-Saint  on  Sunday, 
and  assist  at  Mass  and  Vespers  in 
our  usual  place." 

"  You  shall  not  go  alone,  my 
poor  child,"  said  Pierrette. 

"  That  is  right,"  said  the  curd ; 
"I  expected  as  much.  As  for  you, 
my  dear  Ragaud,  as  I  know  you  to 
be  truly  honorable,  you  will  not,  I 
suppose,  allow  these  two  women  to 
bravely  fulfil  their  duty,  and  leave 
you  behind?" 

"  I  will  see ;  I  can't  promise  any 
thing,"  answered  Ragaud. 

"  I  count  upon  you,"  said  the 
curt,  pretending  to  take  these 
words  as  an  engagement,  "  and  I 
beg  that  you  will  come  after  Mass 
and  dine  with  me;  Germaine  will 
have  a  nice  dish  of  larks,  which 
will  not  be  much  expense,  as  in  this 
snowy  weather  they  only  cost  five 
cents  a  dozen." 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Ragaud,  who 
felt  greatly  relieved  by  this  plea- 
sant conversation,  which  he  very 
much  needed,  "  commence  by  tak- 
ing supper  with  me  this  evening ; 
it  will  be  a  charitable  deed  to  stay 
with  people  who  are  so  unhappy." 

"  Willingly,"  replied  the  cure  ; 
"but  with  these  closed  shutters 
and  cold  rooms,  that  make  me 
think  of  a  tomb,  I  will  not  have 
any  appetite.  You  must  change 
all  that,  and  let  in  some  light. 
Come,  madame,  show  us  if  you 
still  can  turn  a  spoon  in  the  sauce- 
pan." 

Pierrette  could  not  repress  a 
pleased  smile  at  this  apostrophe, 
and  all  her  old  occupations  and  fa- 
vorite habits  came  back  to  her  at 
the  remembrancer,  which  tickled 
her  heart.  Just  as  in  nursery-tales 
a  wicked  fairy  enchants  a  house  for 
a  time,  and  suddenly  a  good  one 
comes,  and  with  a  wave  of  her  wand 
changes  affairs  ;  at  Muiceron,  which 
appeared  desolate  and  dead,  the 


words  of  the  cure  restored  the  old 
life  and  animation  which  were  so 
pleasant  to  behold  in  the  former 
prosperous  days.  Ragaud  made  a 
great  fire  to  drive  out  the  close, 
damp  smell ;  Pierrette  threw  open 
the  shutters  with  a  quick  hand,  and, 
seeing  her  garden  ruined  by  the 
poultry,  she  blushed  from  shame, 
and  grumbled  aloud  at  her  neglect. 
That  was  a  true  sign  that  her  cour- 
age had  returned.  During  this 
time,  Jeannette  and  Marion  got 
out  the  linen  for  the  table,  wiped 
the  dishes,  gray  with  dust,  and  pre- 
pared the  fricassee,  which  consist- 
ed, for  this  meal,  of  a  ragout  of  wild 
rabbits  that  M.  le  Cure  looked  at 
with  a  mischievous  twinkle  in  his 
eye,  as  he  knew  well  this  game 
could  only  be  the  result  of  poach- 
ing. 

"  There,"  said  he,  trying  to  the 
best  of  his  ability  to  cheer  up  his 
poor  friends,  "  is  a  dish  which  does 
you  honor,  Mme.  Ragaud,  and 
that  will  be  perfectly  delicious  if 
you  will  put  a  glass  of  white  wine 
in  the  sauce.  But  if  you  will  let 
me  give  you  a  word  of  advice,  don't 
feed  those  little  animals  with  cab- 
bage." 

"Why  not?"  said  Pierrette,  as- 
tonished, thinking  that  M.  le  Cure 
mistook  the  game  for  a  tame  rab- 
bit. 

"  Oh  !  yes,"  said  he,  "  that  ani- 
mal smells  of  cabbage,  unless  I 
have  lost  the  sense  of  smelling ; 
and  it  spoils  the  taste  very  much." 

"  But,  monsieur,"  answered  Pier- 
rette, half  offended,  "  this  is  a  wild 
rabbit,  caught  in  the  wood  of  La 
Sange." 

"  Not  possible  !"  cried  M.  le  Cure, 
feigning  great  astonishment.  "  /-  nd 
since  when  has  the  farm  of  Mui- 
ceron, which  I  have  always  seen 
the  best  supplied  in  the  country 
with  poultry,  sheep,  pigeons,  and 


122 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


all  other  productions,  been  reduced 
to  buy  game  stolen  from  its  master 
for  food  ?" 

"  Marion  bought  it,"  said  Pier- 
rette ;  "  the  poor  girl  goes  after  pro- 
visions, and  don't  look  far;  she 
brings  back  what  she  finds,  without 
thinking  of  evil." 

"  So  Marion  is  mistress  of  the 
house  now  ?"  said  the  cure.  "  My 
dear  friends,"  he  added,  "  this  is  a 
little  incident  which  carries  a  great 
moral  with  it.  I  wish  no  further 
evidence  to  prove  to  you  how 
much  your  grief,  just  at  the  bot- 
tom, is  hurtful  and  wrong  in  real- 
ity. When  I  came  in,  Pierrette,  I 
was  pained  at  the  disordered  appear- 
ance of  everything  around.  In  a 
little  while  Muiceron  will  resem- 
ble the  estate  of  an  idle,  lazy  man 
who  lets  the  ground  lie  fallow. 
What  an  example  for  the  neighbor- 
hood, who  looked  upon  you  as 
models !  Come,  come,  you  must 
change  all  this,  my  good  children. 
Commence  your  work;  there  is 
enough  to  do.  I  bet,  Ragaud,  your 
horses  have  not  been  curried  for 
two  weeks  ?" 

"  Alas  !  monsieur,  you  are  half 
right — not  curried  as  they  should 
be,"  answered  Ragaud  in  a  peni- 
tent tone. 

"  I  must  have  lost  more  than  six 
dozen  eggs,"  said  Pierrette,  looking 
down. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  the  eggs," 
resumed  M.  le  Cure;  "but  as  for 
your  chickens,  who  have  not  had  a 
grain  of  food  but  the  gravel  they 
have  scratched,  they  are  so  lean  I 
wouldn't  eat  one  of  them  if  you 
gave  it  to  me." 

These  reproaches  piqued  the  self- 
respect  of  our  good  people  more 
than  any  number  of  long  and  learned 
speeches  uttered  in  a  severe  tone. 
Pierrette  was  deeply  contrite  for 
?ier  faults.  On  setting  the  table, 


she  could  not  keep  from  the  eyes 
of  M.  le  Cure,  who  spied  everything 
designedly,  the  six-pound  loaf  of 
white  bread  which  Marion  had 
that  very  morning  brought  home 
from  the  baker's.  This  loaf,  that 
was  long  and  split  in  the  middle, 
was  not  the  least  in  the  world  like 
the  bread  made  in  the  house,  and 
proved  that  Pierrette  had  not 
kneaded  the  dough  for  a  long  time. 
Our  curt  would  not  let  the  bread 
pass  unnoticed  any  more  than  the 
rabbit-stew,  said  it  was  dry  and 
tasteless — which  was  true — and 
seized  this  opportunity  also  to 
make  his  friends  promise  to  resume 
their  ordinary  train  of  life. 

The  supper  was  not  very  gay,  it 
must  be  acknowledged,  but  passed 
off  quietly,  and  thus  this  visit  of  the 
cure,  which  was  followed  by  many 
others,  began  to  bring  back  peace 
in  those  hearts  so  crushed  with  sor- 
row. 

The  following  Sunday,  Jeannette, 
according  to  her  promise,  went  to 
Val-Saint,  accompanied  by  her  pa- 
rents. She  appeared  neither  too 
proud  nor  too  subdued,  but  just 
between  the  two — that  is  to  say, 
she  moved  along  with  a  look  of 
perfect  modesty,  which  won  every 
one's  respect,  and  made  all  the  hats 
come  off  as  she  approached  the 
church.  Unfortunately,  it  is  too 
true  that  human  nature  is  apt  to 
rejoice  over  the  misfortunes  of 
others.  It  is  as  though  each  one 
said,  at  the  sight  of  a  thwack  receiv- 
ed by  his  neighbor,  "  So  much  the 
more  on  his  back,  so  much  the  less 
on  mine."  And  I  do  not  conceal 
from  you  that  the  people  of  Val- 
Saint  were  not  exempt  from  this 
culpable  weakness.  On  this  very 
occasion  even  they  were  disposed  to 
be  severe  ;  for,  in  fact,  the  Ragauds* 
misfortune?  were  a  little  their  own 
fault ;  and  each  one  observed  that  if 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


123 


the  parents  had  not  been  too  proud 
and  ambitious  of  making  their 
daughter  a  young  lady,  she  would 
not  have  been  exposed  to  choose 
for  husband  a  scoundrel  whom 
they  thought  a  gentleman.  How- 
ever, sincere  pity  replaced  every 
other  sentiment  when  they  saw 
this  afflicted  family  reappear  in 
broad  daylight  in  such  an  humble 
attitude ;  and  poor  Ragaud,  who 
had  made  a  violent  effort  to  come, 
gradually  recovered  his  ease  at  the 
sight  of  the  kind  faces  that  sur- 
rounded him.  During  the  Mass, 
his  old  heart  recovered  its  balance 
while  praying  to  God.  He  felt 
that  affliction  is  a  good  means  of 
becoming  better,  because  it  draws 
the  soul  to  its  Creator,  whom  we 
are  too  often  tempted  to  forget  in 
the  days  of  uninterrupted  happi- 
ness ;  and  when  the  divine  office 
was  ended,  he  could  without  diffi- 
culty stop  in  the  village  square,  and 
shake  hands  with  several  of  his 
friends. 

Then  they  went  to  the  pastoral 
residence,  where  the  curt  received 
them  joyfully,  and  they  ate  with 
relish  the  dish  of  larks,  which  was 
done  to  a  turn.  At  the  dessert,  the 
Ragauds  looked  like  people  restor- 
ed to  life,  so  much  balm  had  that 
genial  morning  infused  into  their 
blood.  Jeannette  alone  did  not 
share  the  general  happiness,  and 
her  bitter  sadness,  which  could  not 
be  disguised,  in  spite  of  the  care  she 
took  to  smile  and  speak  at  the  right 
time,  was  visible  to  all.  It  must  be 
said  to  her  praise  that  her  vanity, 
which  had  been  so  crushed,  was 
the  least  wound  of  her  heart ;  she 
felt  there  another  so  much  deeper, 
so  much  more  painful,  nothing,  she 
thought,  could  ever  cure  it. 

Where  was  Jean-Louis  ?  What 
had  become  of  that  brother  she 
had  driven  out  so  roughly  and  un- 


justly ?  Her  great  seclusion  since 
the  terrible  event  had  prevented 
her  hearing  a  single  word  about 
him,  and  she  dared  not  question 
any  one. 

As  for  the  Ragauds,  father  and 
mother,  they  never  mentioned  him 
either,  but  for  another  reason.  Ig- 
norant that  Jeannette  had  turned 
the  poor  boy  out  of  the  house,  they 
were  still  firmly  convinced  of  his 
jealousy ;  and  as  they  believed  him 
to  be  employed  on  some  farm  in  the 
neighborhood,  they  were  very  much 
incensed  at  his  prolonged  absence, 
which,  in  view  of  the  present  cir- 
cumstances, appeared  the  act  of  an 
ungrateful  and  hard  heart. 

M.  le  Cure,  who  knew  all,  and 
had  Solange's  letter  in  his  pocket, 
designedly  prolonged  the  grief  of 
Jeannette  and  the  mistake  of  the 
Ragauds,  in  order  that  the  lesson 
might  be  duly  profitable  to  all. 

"  You  see,"  said  he,  "  everything 
has  happened  as  I  foresaw.  Fear- 
ing to  displease  you,  I  did  not  in- 
vite any  one  to  our  little  entertain- 
ment ;  but  understand  well,  my  chil- 
dren, if  I  had  had  fifty  vacant 
places  at  my  table,  I  would  have 
had  great  difficulty  in  choosing  my 
guests ;  so  many  would  have  desired 
the  pleasure  of  dining  with  you,  I 
would  have  been  afraid  of  exciting 
jealousy." 

"  M.  le  Cure,"  said  Ragaud,  "  I 
thank  you,  and  hope  that  your 
kindness  was  not  mistaken.  I 
speak  the  truth  when  I  say  that, 
but  for  you,  I  would  have  died 
rather  than  ever  again  have  shown 
my  face  in  public." 

"  Well,  now  that  it  is  all  over,  let 
us  talk  of  our  friends,"  replied  the 
curt.  "  Are  you  not  curious  to 
hear  some  news  ?" 

No  one  replied ;  the  tender  chord 
was  again  touched. 

"  I  do  not  conceal  the  fact,"  said 


124 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


Ragaud,  "  that  more  than  one  of 
those  so-called  friends  have  pained 
us  by  their  neglect." 

"  Let  us  be  just,"  said  the  curd ; 
u  do  you  forget  that  your  house 
was  so  tightly  closed  no  one  dared 
knock  at  the  door?  I  even  hesi- 
tated to  visit  you,  and  yet  you  can- 
not doubt  my  affection  for  you. 
Why,  then,  should  others  have  been 
bolder?" 

"  Oh  !"  said  Ragaud,  "  any  one 
that  wished  could  easily  have  found 
his  way  in.  You  had  no  difficulty, 
dear  monsieur." 

"  That  I  grant,  but  I  was  in  the 
country.  Do  you  know  how  many 
of  your  best  friends  are  here  yet  ? 
In  the  first  place,  the  whole  of  the 
chateau  are  in  Paris." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it,"  said  Jeanne. 
"  My  godmother  did  not  bid  me 
good-by." 

"  She  was  very  sick,  my  daugh- 
ter; you  must  not  ill-judge  her." 

"  And  Michou  ?"  asked  Ragaud. 

"  Michou  was  at  Mass,  directly 
behind  you,"  said  the  cure  j  "and 
if  he  did  not  show  himself,  it  was 
from  delicacy  ;  but  he  is  not  far  off, 
and  will  come  at  the  first  signal." 

"And  Solango?"  asked  Jeanne, 
in  such  a  low  tone  she  scarcely 
could  be  heard.  That  was  the 
name  the  <:«;•/ was  waiting  for.  He 
looked  at  Jeanne  in  a  serious  manner. 

"  Solange,"  said  he,  "  left  also  on 
that  unfortunate  day,  and  knew 
nothing  of  it.  She,  Jeanne  Ragaud, 
was  your  most  faithful  friend,  and 
is  so  still.  You  have  calumniated 
her,  my  daughter.  I  know  it ;  but 
I  hope  you  have  sincerely  repented ; 
above  all,  when  you  hear  that  she 
is  now  at  the  novitiate  of  the  Sis- 
ters of  Charity." 

"Ah  !  is  it  possible  ?"  cried  she, 
clasping  her  hands.  "  Dear  So- 
lange !  how  unjust  I  have  been  to 
her'" 


"  Have  you  not  been  unjust  to 
others  also,  my  child?"  asked  the 
cure  with  gentleness.  "  Confess  it, 
Jeannette  ;  you  should  do  so  from  a 
sense  of  justice." 

Jeannette  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands,  and  burst  into  tears.  The 
question  had  pierced  her  soul. 

"  M.  le  Cure,"  said  Pierrette, 
"  I  know  of  whom  you  wish  to 
speak ;  but  he,  I  believe,  has  not 
left  the  country,  and  his  conduct, 
therefore,  is  scarcely  excusable." 

"Ask  your  daughter,"  replied  the 
curt  j  "  she,  undoubtedly,  can  answer 
that  question." 

And  as  Jeannette  could  not 
speak  on  account  of  her  tears,  he 
continued  : 

"  What  could  he  do,  poor  boy  ! 
but  disappear  when  the  only  roof 
that  could  shelter  him  refused  to 
receive  him.  He  is  no  longer  here, 
Mme.  Ragaud,  that  child  who  loved 
you  so  dearly,  and  who  had  proved 
it  so  well.  An  inconsiderate  word 
has  driven  him  from  your  arms 
and,  having  no  other  resource  in 
this  world,  he  is  going  to  become  a 
soldier,  doubtless  in  the  hope  of 
dying  honorably  in  fighting  for  his 
country." 

"  Never  did  I  drive  off  Jean- 
Louis,  monsieur,"  said  good  Pier- 
rette ;  "  no,  never,  I  can  truly 
swear." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Ragaud  ;  "  and  at 
this  very  moment  I  am  ready  to 
redeem  him  from  the  conscrip- 
tion." 

"  However,  he  is  gone,"  replied 
the  cure  ;  "  and  he,  like  Solange, 
did  not  know  you  were  in  trou- 
ble." 

"Oh!"  cried  Jeanne,  falling  on 
her  knees,  "  I  did  it  all.  Hea- 
ven has  justly  punished  me.  Tell 
me  where  he  is,  M.  le  Cure ;  he  will 
not  refuse  to  pardon  me,  I  am  so 
unhappy." 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


12$ 


"  What  did  you  do  ?"  asked  Pier- 
rette. "  Alas !  all  this  worry  has 
turned  the  poor  child's  head.  Of 
what  do  you  wish  to  accuse  your- 
self, my  daughter?" 

Old  Ragaud,  who  was  not  easily 
moved,  approached  the  little  thing 
and  placed  his  hand  on  her  head. 
He  was  very  much  affected  to  see 
her  thus,  kneeling  and  weeping,  in 
the  posture  of  a  guilty  person.  He 
looked  at  M.  le  Cure,  who  looked 
at  Jeannette,  and  Pierrette  looked 
at  all  three. 

Then  that  young  girl  did  some- 
thing very  touching  and  unusual. 
She  wiped  her  eyes,  and,  without 
rising,  commenced  in  a  sweet,  low 
voice  the  true  confession  of  all  her 
past  conduct,  not  sparing  herself, 
as  was  right  and  just,  and  yet 
neither  showing  excitement  nor 
too  great  bitterness  against  herself, 
which  was  the  mark  of  sincere  re- 
pentance. As  she  spoke,  her  face 
regained  its  color,  and  her  eyes 
shone  with  holy  joy  ;  for  the  Lord, 
who  saw  her  laudable  intention,  re- 
warded her  with  great  interior  re- 
lief for  doing  what  for  many  others 
would  have  been  the  greatest  mor- 
tification. When  she  had  finished, 
she  remained  with  her  hands  clasp- 
ed, and  her  head  bent  low,  before 
her  parents  and  M.  le  Cure  ;  but  no 
person  broke  the  silence.  Of  the 
three  witnesses  of  this  affecting 
scene,  two  wept  behind  their  hand- 
kerchiefs, and  the  third,  wishing 
to  preserve  his  gravity  as  pastor, 
was  too  much  moved  to  articulate 
a  word. 

"  Father,"  continued  Jeannette 
in  the  same  humble  and  firm  tone, 
"  judge  me,  now  that  you  know  how 
guilty  I  am.  It  is  to  you  I  speak, 
in  presence  of  my  mother  and  M. 
le  Cure",  and  I  am  ready  to  submit 
to  whatever  punishment  you  may 
inflict  upon  me,  I  have  deurived 


you  of  a  son  who  made  you  happy, 
that  you  might  keep  a  daughter 
who  has  only  drawn  misery  and 
sorrow  on  your  house.  But  that 
daughter  is  still  capable  of  loving 
you  ;  let  her  remain  with  you,  that 
she  may  make  reparation  for  her 
sins.  I  know  I  do  not  deserve  it," 
added  she  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"  My  daughter,"  said  M.  le  Cure, 
"you  have  done  well.  Rise;  the 
good  God  pardons  you,  and  your 
parents  also,  very  certainly." 

"  O  my  poor  darling !  most 
surely,"  said  Pierrette,  pressing  her 
child  to  her  breast. 

"  And  you,  Ragaud,  will  you  not 
embrace  your  daughter  ?"  asked  M. 
le  Cure. 

The  good  farmer,  you  may  well 
think,  had  no  desire  to  be  severe. 
He  kissed  Jeannette  with  great 
tenderness,  and  made  her  sit  down 
by  him.  But  his  heart  was  much 
troubled;  now  that  he  understood 
his  injustice  towards  Jean-Louis, 
and  his  rash  judgment,  and  re- 
membering how  easy  it  would  have 
been  for  him  to  have  prevented  his 
departure  by  speaking  a  friendly 
word  at  the  right  time,  he  reproach- 
ed himself  as  bitterly  as  Jeannette 
had  done  ;  and  if  his  paternal  dig- 
nity had  not  prevented  him  from 
humiliating  himself  before  his  child, 
he  would  have  been  tempted  to 
confess  in  his  turn. 

"  M.  le  CureY'  said  he,  "  if  God 
one  day  will  let  us  know  where 
Jean-Louis  is,  do  you  think  he 
would  consent  to  return  ?" 

"Hem!"  said  the  cure,  "he  is 
proud;  that  remains  to  be  seen.  .  ." 

"  Oh  !  I  would  beg  him  so  hard," 
replied  Jeanne. 

"  In  the  first  place,  my  child,  we 
must  put  our  hands  on  him ;  and 
there  is  the  difficulty.  Jeannet  is 
not  a  boy  to  change  his  resolution 
•like  a  weathercock  that  turns  to 


126 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


every  wind.  And  if  he  has  enlist- 
ed, you  will  have  to  run  after  his 
regiment." 

"  Poor  child  !"  said  Ragaud,  "  he 
don't  know  that  he  has  a  little  for- 
tune stowed  away  in  a  safe  place, 
and  that  it  increases  every  year. 
If  it  should  cost  three  thousand 
francs,  I  will  redeem  him,  no  matter 
where,  no  matter  when." 

"  Father,"  said  Jeanne,  "  before 
leaving  M.  le  Cure,  let  me  .ask  you 
one  favor  in  his  presence." 

"  Speak,  my  child,  I  promise  it 
to  you  in  advance,"  answered  the 
good  man. 

"  That  you  will  never  speak  to  me 
of  marriage,"  replied  the  little  thing 
in  a  firm  voice,  "  and  that  you  will 
let  me  assist  my  mother  in  all  her 
labors  in  the  fields." 

"  And  when  mademoiselle  comes 
back  ?"  asked  the  curt,  with  a  spice 
of  mischief. 

"  Oh  !  I  understand  too  well  that 
my  place  is  no  longer  at  the  cha- 
teau ;  all  our  troubles  have  come 
from  my  having  lived  there  too 
long,"  said  she. 

"Jeanne  Ragaud,"  said  M.  le 
Cure",  "always  think  so,  and  con- 
form your  conduct  to  your  words ; 
and  if  you  will  persevere  in  your 
resolution,  in  the  name  of  the 
Lord  I  promise  you  that  these 
trials  will  pass,  and  that  you  will 
yet  have  many  happy  days." 

M.  le  Cur£  pronounced  these 
words  in  such  a  serious  tone  they 
all  three  felt  wonderfully  com- 
forted. We  can  truly  say  that  this 
Sunday  was  one  of  the  happiest 
days  in  the  life  of  the  Ragauds. 
They  went  back  to  Muiceron  with 
courage  and  peace  in  their  souls, 
and  on  the  next  day  each  one  set 
to  work  to  repair  the  damage  that 
two  weeks  of  discouragement  and 
gloom  had  introduced  into  that 
poor  forlorn  house. 


The  days  passed  rapidly  be- 
tween work  and  household  duties 
faithfully  accomplished.  Gradual- 
ly the  remembrance  of  the  recent 
misfortunes  lost  its  bitterness,  and 
they  were  even  able  to  speak  of 
them  sometimes  to  Jacques  Mi- 
chou,  who  came  frequently  to  visit 
his  friends.  As  the  police  sought 
in  vain  for  Isidore,  people  ended 
by  letting  him  drop ;  and,  as  always 
happens,  each  one  having  resumed 
his  usual  course  of  affairs,  they  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  perhaps  he 
was  not  so  guilty  as  had  seemed  at 
first  sight;  so  that,  but  for  their 
ignorance  as  to  the  fate  of  Jean- 
Louis,  one  month  after  the  catas- 
trophe the  Ragauds  appeared  as 
happy  and  tranquil  as  before. 

M.  le  Cure  was  not  so  ignorant, 
being  kept  fully  informed  by  Jean- 
Louis,  who  wrote  to  him  regu- 
larly, but  left  to  his  wisdom  to 
confide  what  he  chose  to  the  family 
at  Muiceron.  He  preferred  to 
keep  a  strict  silence,  for  the  very 
good  reason  that  he  wished  to 
prove,  by  a  long  trial,  the  sincerity 
of  Jeannette's  conversion.  Thank 
God!  on  that  side  there  was  no- 
thing to  apprehend.  Solange,  with 
her  great  charity  of  soul,  had  not 
been  mistaken  in  thinking  Jean- 
nette's head  weaker  than  her  heart. 

Misfortune  had  so  purified  and 
strengthened  the  little  creature, 
Jean-Louis  would  have  loved  her 
more  than  ever,  could  he  have  seen 
her  thus  changed ;  for  although 
nothing  is  perfect  in  this  world,  I 
can  truly  say,  without  exaggeration, 
she  was  now  as  near  perfection  as 
coirfd  be  expected  of  anything 
human. 

Pierrette,  who  at  first  wished  to 
spare  her  little  hands,  so  unaccus- 
tomed to  work,  did  not  wish  her  to 
undertake  any  of  the  heavier  labor  ; 
but  Jeannette  was  so  quick  and 


The  Farm  of  M nicer  on. 


127 


ready,  the  hardest  and  most  diffi- 
cult tasks  were  always  accom- 
plished by  the  time  her  mother 
came  to  give  directions.  She  was 
the  first  at  the  stables  in  the  morn- 
ing, which  she  never  left  until  all 
was  in  order,  the  fresh  milk  placed 
aside,  and  the  cream  taken  off  that 
of  the  evening  before ;  on  churning 
days  she  prepared  the  wheels  of 
the  machine,  which  would  after- 
wards be  turned  by  Marion.  It 
was  she  also  who  measured  the 
ashes  for  the  lye  used  in  the  big 
wash  the  fifteenth  of  every  month ; 
and  every  week  gave  out  the  flour, 
half  wheat,  half  rye,  for  the  family 
bread.  So  great  was  her  zeal  she 
even  wished  to  knead  the  dough, 
and  put  the  loaves  in  the  oven, 
which  is  terribly  hard  work ;  but 
this  time  Pierrette  showed  her  au- 
thority, and  declared  she  would 
sooner  give  up  baking  at  home 
than  see  her  daughter  wear  herself 
out  at  the  kneading-trough  like  a 
baker's  son-in-law. 

From  time  to  time,  M.  le  Cure" 
visited  Muiceron  at  unusual  hours, 
so  that  his  appearance  would  be 
entirely  unexpected,  and  always 
found  Jeannette  busy  with  her 
household  labors,  or,  if  it  was  late 
in  the  day,  seated  by  the  window, 
mending  the  clothes  and  linen  of 
the  family. 

Her  dress  was  always  very  sim- 
ple, even  on  Sunday,  and  you  may 
well  think  that  mademoiselle's, 
beautiful  dresses  were  left  hanging 
in  the  closet  without  being  even 
looked  at  occasionally.  For  an- 
other girl  it  would  have  been  ad- 
visable economy  to  make  some  use 
of  them  by  altering  the  style,  so  as 
to  fit  them  for  the  farm ;  but  Jean- 
nette was  too  rich  for  any  one  to 
accuse  her  of  extravagance  for  not 
using  them,  and  it  was  every  way 
better  she  should  not  reappear  in 


costumes  that  would  recall  a  time 
which,  although  passed,  still  left  a 
painful  memory. 

She  generally  wore  a  serge  skirt 
striped  in  black  and  white,  with  a 
woollen  basque  which  correspond- 
ed ;  and  her  Indian  neckerchief  from 
Rouen,  covered  with  little  bou- 
quets of  bright  flowers,  crossed  in 
front,  under  her  apron,  was  in  no 
way  more  pretentious  or  coquet- 
tish than  that  of  her  mother  Pier- 
rette. 

She  even  wore  the  cap  of  our 
country-girls,  which  consists  of  a 
head-piece  of  linen,  with  long  ends 
of  lawn,  which  they  cross  above  the 
head  on  the  days  they  wish  to  ap- 
pear very  fine.  Coquettes  know 
how  to  make  themselves  very  ele- 
gant by  adding  embroidery  and 
lace;  but  Jeanne  Ragaud,  who 
could  have  bought  out  a  mercer's 
shop,  thought  no  longer  of  beauti- 
fying herself,  much  less  her  cap. 
Thus  dressed,  she  looked  more  like 
a  quiet  little  outdoor  sister  of 
some  convent  than  the  sole  heiress 
of  a  large  estate.  She  was  told  so 
sometimes,  which  highly  delighted 
her,  as  she  wished  to  appear  in 
everything  totally  different  from 
what  she  had  been. 

It  needed  a  little  courage  to  act 
thus  before  the  eyes  of  the  whole 
commune.  Jeannette  knew  that 
after  being  called  for  ten  years  the 
vainest,  silliest  little  peacock  in  the 
country,  she  was  now  looked  upon 
as  an  exaggerated  devotee ;  and, 
what  was  worse,  some  said  she  had 
thrown  herself  into  the  arms  of  the 
good  God  because  her  marriage 
had  been  broken  off. 

"  Wait  and  see,"  said  the  busy 
tongues ;  "  only  let  her  dear  Per- 
dreau  come  back,  and  all  the  fine 
dresses  will  be  taken  from  the 
hooks,  as  before  his  departure." 

For    they    were   persuaded    she 


128 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


adored  him,  and  that  she  still  pre- 
served, in  the  bottom  of  her  heart, 
a  tender  remembrance,  mingled 
with  regret,  which  only  waited  an 
opportunity  to  show  itself.  Now, 
one's  nature  is  not  changed,  no 
matter  how  gr.eat  is  the  desire  to 
correct  it,  and  you  know  that  Jean- 
nette  was  passionate  and  excitable. 
She  therefore  had  much  to  suffer, 
and  did  suffer  in  silence,  thinking 
that  all  these  mortifications  would 
aid  her  to  expiate  her  sins,  and  to 
merit  from  the  good  God  the  favor 
of  Jean-Louis'  return,  which  now 
was  the  sole  object  of  all  her 
thoughts,  desires,  and  prayers. 

To  see  again  the  friend  of  her 
childhood;  to  soothe  together  the 
declining  years  of  her  old  parents  • 
to  converse  with  him  as  in  old 
times ;  to  resume  the  gentle  friend- 
ship, which  now  was  so  ardently 
desired  by  her  poor  little  heart ;  to 
ask  his  pardon  ;  and  to  make  him  so 
happy  that  he  would  forget  the  past 
— this  was  what  this  repentant,  lov- 
jng  child  thought  of  by  day,  and 
dreamt  of  all  night,  waking  or  sleep- 
ing. As  her  conversion  had  not 
deprived  her  of  penetration,  she 
quickly  guessed  that  the  good  curd 
knew  every  movement  of  Jean- 
Louis  from  A  to  Z  ;  and  it  was 
amusing  to  see  the  way  in  which 
•he  would  turn  and  turn  again  her 


questions,  in  the  most  innocent 
manner,  so  as  to  obtain  some  en- 
lightenment on  the  subject.  But 
our  curd  read  this  young  soul  like 
an  open  book,  and,  although  he  ad- 
mired all  that  the  Lord  was  work- 
ing in  it  for  her  good,  pursued  the 
trial,  and,  under  the  manner  of  an 
old  grandfather,  kind-hearted  and 
tender,  did  not  allow  her  to  gain 
from  him  one  foot  of  ground. 
However,  occasionally  he  pretend- 
ed to  be  surprised,  taken  by  storm. 
It  was  when  he  would  see  the  little 
thing  sadder  than  usual,  and  ready 
to  be  discouraged.  Then  he  would 
loose  the  string  two  or  three  inches 
— that  is  to  say,  he  would  say  a  word 
here  and  there,  to  make  it  appear 
he  would  speak  openly  at  his  next 
visit ;  and  when  that  day  came,  he 
played  the  part  of  a  person  very 
much  astonished  that  anything  was 
expected  from  him. 

However,  like  everything  else,  this 
had  to  come  to  an  end.  Half 
through  pity,  half  through  wisdom, 
the  dear  curd  thought — as  he  said 
himself — that  if  the  bow  was  too 
much  bent,  it  would  break ;  so  one 
morning,  having  finished  his  Mass 
and  eaten  his  frugal  breakfast,  he 
went  to  Muiceron,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  conversing  seriously  with 
the  Ragauds,  and  telling  them  all 
that  he  knew  of  good  Jean-Louis. 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


129 


xx. 

THAT  day  was  February  25, 
'  1848.  If  you  remember,  there 
had  never  been  seen,  at  that  season, 
such  mild  weather  and  such  bril- 
liant sunshine.  But  that  the  trees 
were  without  leaves,  it  seemed  like 
May ;  and  in  the  orchards  exposed 
to  the  south,  the  almond-trees  were 
even  covered  with  big  buds  ready 
to  flower. 

This  beautiful,  early  spring  re- 
joiced all  on  the  earth,  both  men 
and  beasts ;  the  peasants  were 
heard  singing  in  the  fields,  the 
horses  neighing  at  the  plough,  the 
liens  clucking,  the  sparrows  chirp- 
ing, the  lambs  bleating ;  and  down 
to  the  babbling  brooks,  that  flowed 
and  leaped  over  the  stones  with 
more  than  ordinary  rapidity,  each 
creature,  in  its  own  way,  appeared 
happy  and  glad. 

The  cur/  walked  along  slowly,  a 
little  fatigued  by  the  heat,  to  which 
he  was  not  yet  accustomed.  He 
closed  his  Breviary,  and  thought 
of  the  dear  family  he  was  about  to 
rejoice  with  his  good  news,  and 
doubtless,  also,  of  the  exile,  who 
only  waited  for  one  word  to  return 
to  his  beloved  home. 

When  he  reached  the  right  of  the 
barns  at  Muiceron,  he  paused  a 
moment  behind  the  cottage  to  take 
breath  and  wipe  his  forehead. 
From  that  spot  he  could  see  into 
the  courtyard  without  being  seen ; 
and  what  he  saw,  although  very 
simple,  moved  him  to  the  bottom 
of  his  soul. 


Jeanne  Ragaud  was  drawing  wa- 
ter from  the  well;  but,  instead  of 
carrying  off  the  buckets  already 
filled,  she  deposited  them  on  the 
ground,  and,  resting  her  elbows  on 
the  curbstone  of  the  well,  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands  in  the 
attitude  of  a  person  completely 
overcome. 

He  knew  she  was  weeping,  and 
certainly  her  poor  heart  must  have 
been  full  of  sorrow  that  she  should 
give  way  to  such  silent  grief.  The 
good  cur/  could  no  longer  restrain 
himself;  he  advanced  gently  behind 
her,  and,  when  quite  near,  touched 
her  on  the  shoulder,  just  as  he  had 
done  in  former  days,  when  he  wish- 
ed to  surprise  her  in  some  school- 
girl's trick. 

Jeanne  turned  around,  and  he  saw 
her  pretty  face  bathed  in  tears. 

"  Oh  !  oh  !"  said  the  kind  pastor,, 
smiling,  "  what  are  you  doing,  my 
daughter?  I  wager  you  are  the 
only  one  who  is  not  rejoicing  to- 
day in  the  bright  sunshine  that 
the  good  God  gives  us." 

"  Father,"  said  the  little  thing, 
who  always  thus  addressed  our  cur/ 
when  they  were  alone,  "  it  is  perhaps 
very  wrong,  but  it  is  precisely  all 
this  joy  I  see  around  me  that  breaks- 
my  heart.  When  I  reached  the  well, 
I  thought  how  often  Jean-Louis  had 
come  to  this  very  place  to  draw- 
water  for  us,  and  how  displeased! 
he  was  when  my  mother  wished  to 
do  it  herself.  Poor  Jeannet !  he 
was  so  gentle  and  kind !  Oh !  I  am 
sure  he  is  unhappy  away  from  home." 


The  Farm  of  Muicercn. 


"That  is  not  doubtful,"  replied 
the  curd  j  "  but  perhaps  one  day  we 
will  see  him  again." 

"  I  begin  to  despair  of  it,"  said 
she.  "  He  left  heart-broken,  and 
perhaps  now  he  detests  me." 

"  Perhaps  ?  Perhaps,  my  daugh- 
ter, can  mean  yes  as  well  as  no ; 
why  should  it  not  be  no  ?" 

"  Ah !  if  I  only  knew !"  said  she. 

"  Well,  what  would  you  do  ?" 

"  I  would  write  to  him  that  I 
love  him,"  she  cried,  clasping  her 
hands  ;  "  and  I  would  beg  him  to 
come  and  tell  me  that  he  pardons 
me,  and  take  his  place  again  at 
home ;  for  the  house  will  always  be 
his,  whether  I  live  or  die ;  and  al- 
though I  have  done  very  wrong, 
he  would  listen  to  me,  don't  you 
think  so,  father?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  curt,  much  touch- 
ed ;  "  he  is  a  person  who  never 
cherished  rancor  against  any  one. 
Write  to  him,  my  child,  and  tell 
him  all  you  wish ;  your  letter  will 
reach  him." 

>  "  Ah  !  you  know  where  he  is  ?    I 
thought  so,"  said  she  joyfully. 

"  Yes,  indeed  !  I  know  where  he 
is,  and  I  will  now  tell  you,  my  dear 
daughter.  He  is  in  Paris,  where 
he  wants  for  nothing;  and  if  you 
are  good,  if  you  will  stop  crying,  I 
will  read  you  some  of  his  letters, 
which  will  make  you  happy." 

"  Oh  !  I  promise  you  that  I  will 
be  good.  I  will  not  cry  any  more — 
never  again,"  cried  the  poor  little 
creature,  who  instantly  began  to 
sob,  by  way  of  keeping  her  pro- 
mise. 

But  they  were  tears  of  joy  this 
time,  and  the  curd  let  them  flow 
without  reproof.  They  entered 
Muiceron  together,  and  Jeannette, 
without  any  preambulation,  threw 
herself  on  her  mother's  breast,  cry- 
ing out  that  Jeannet  was  coming 
back.  Pierrette,  who  desired  it  as 


ardently  as  she,  asked  to  be  excus- 
ed for  one  moment,  that  she  might 
run  off  and  tell  Ragaud,  who  was 
sowing  clover  near  the  house.  It 
was  right  that  they  should  be  all 
together  to  hear  such  welcome 
news;  but  scarcely  had  the  good 
woman  reached  the  door,  than  she 
knocked  against  Jacques  Michou, 
who  had  just  crossed  the  threshold. 

"  Jean-Louis !  Jean- Louis  is  com- 
ing back!"  said    Pierrette,    as   she* 
passed    him.    "  Come    in,    Jacques 
Michou ;     I    will    be    back    in    a 
second." 

Michou  entered  in  his  usual  tran- 
quil manner.  He  saluted  the  cure 
and  Jeanne  without  showing  the 
least  excitement. 

"  Who  says  that  Jeannet  is  coming 
back  ?"  he  asked. 

"  We  don't  say  he  is  coming 
back,"-  replied  the  curt,  "  but  that 
he  will  return  home." 

"  All  very  well,"  answered  Mi- 
chou ;  "  but,  for  the  present,  that  is 
not  to  be  thought  of." 

"  My  God  !"  cried  Jeanne,  "  what 
has  happened  ?" 

"  The  revolution  in  Paris,"  said 
Michou ;  "  and  this  time  it  is  real. 
Here  is  a  letter  from  M.  le  Marquis, 
who  tells  me  that  in  three  days  from 
now  all  will  be  fire  and  blood.  He 
orders  me  to  join  him — Jeannet  is 
with  him — and  I  will  take  guns  for 
everybody." 

Jeannette  fell  fainting  in  a  chair. 
M.  le  Cure"  conversed  with  Michou  ; 
and,  meanwhile,  Ragaud  and  Pier- 
rette entered,  and  learned,  in  their 
turn,  the  event,  which  was  very  true, 
as  we  all  know.  I  leave  you  to 
think  if  there  were  ahs  !  and  ohs ! 
and  exclamations  of  all  kinds.  For 
a  full  hour  there  were  so  many  con- 
tradictory statements  you  would 
have  thought  the  revolution  at 
Paris  transported  to  Muiceron.  Se- 
veral peasants,  returning  from  the 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


city,  stopped  at  the  farm,  and  re- 
ported there  was  agitation  every- 
where ;  that  a  great  number  of 
workmen  in  the  factories  had  de- 
camped ;  and,  as  under  similar  cir- 
cumstances all  sorts  of  stories  are 
told  and  believed,  it  was  added  that 
half  the  capital  was  already  burnt, 
and  that  smoke  was  seen  in  all  the 
other  parts  of  the  city.  At  that, 
Michou  shrugged  his  shoulders ;  but 
he  was  anxious  about  his  master, 
whom  he  knew  to  be  the  man  to  do 
a  thousand  imprudent  things,  so  he 
took  a  hasty  farewell  of  his  friends, 
and  that  very  evening  passed  Mui- 
ceron in  full  rig,  armed  and  equip- 
ped, ready  for  his  post. 

So  once  again  everybody  at  Mui- 
ceron became  gloomy  and  miserable, 
as  each  day  brought  its  fresh  con- 
tingent of  sad  news.  For  if,  in  the 
city  and  among  learned  men,  where 
there  is  every  chance  of  correct  in- 
formation, every  one  appears  half 
crazy  in  time  of  public  calamity, 
and  in  a  fever  to  talk  all  kinds  of 
nonsense,  you  can  imagine  what  it 
is  in  a  village,  where  one  is  obliged 
to  listen  to  the  neighbors  and  gos- 
sips, who  always  improve  on  the 
most  absurd  reports.  It  is  true, 
also,  that  they  never  see  a  paper, 
and  it  is  lucky  if  they  preserve  a 
few  gleams  of  good  sense ;  but  what 
each  one  draws  from  his  own  pri- 
vate source  amply  suffices  to  bewil- 
der everybody. 

I,  who  speak  to  you,  and  who  was 
very  young  at  the  time  of  this  revo- 
lution, remember  well  to  have  heard 
it  positively  affirmed  that  the  king, 
Louis  Philippe,  and  his  family  had 
been  crucified  in  front  of  their  cha- 
teau, then  cut  in  little  pieces,  boil- 
ed, and  eaten  by  the  people !  And 
when,  in  addition,  it  was  said  that 
the  waters  of  the  Seine  had  formed  a 
magnificent  cascade  from  the  heap- 
ed-up  corpses,  and  were  red  with 


blood  as  far  as  the  bridge  at  Rouen, 
I  did  not  think  the  thing  incredible, 
and,  with  great  simplicity,  1  always 
awaited  still  more  extraordinary 
news. 

I  remember,  also,  that  a  band  of 
our  most  respectable  young  men 
took  turns  every  night  in  mounting 
guard  around  the  chateau  of  Val- 
Saint,  because  it  was  known,  from 
a  trustworthy  source,  that  the  cel- 
lars contained  more  than  a  hundred 
barrels  of  powder,  ready  to  blow  up 
at  the  shortest  notice.  Now,  to  ask 
how  so  many  barrels,  the  least  of 
which  weighed  as  much  as  a  tun  of 
wine,  could  have  been  placed  there 
without  being  seen,  is  what  no  per- 
son thought  of;  and  the  reflection, 
what  man,  sufficiently  desirous  of 
putting  an  end  to  his  days  by  bring- 
ing that  enormous  building  down 
upon  him  (a  thing  which  could 
profit  no  one),  would  be  capable  of 
setting  fire  to  the  powder,  still  less 
entered  their  heads ;  and  yet  terror 
was  at  its  height  at  the  mere  thought 
of  an  explosion  so  tremendous  that 
it  would  have  broken  all  windows 
for  two  leagues  round.  And  thus 
it  is  that  good  people,  without  wish- 
ing it,  lend  their  hands  to  the  revo- 
lution. 

It  was  not  that  all  this  was  be- 
lieved at  Muiceron  as  readily  as  I 
swallowed  it,  but,  in  reality,  they 
were  very  anxious,  and  ardently  de- 
sirous of  hearing  news.  A  long  week 
passed.  M.  Michou  wrote  a  short 
letter,  in  which  he  said  everybody 
was  well,  that  M.  le  Marquis  and 
Jean-Louis  were  always  together, 
and  cried  out,  "  Long  live  the  king !" 
in  the  streets  while  carrying  a  white 
flag,  which  made  the  boys  of  the 
street  laugh,  but  at  which  no  one 
took  any  exception.  He  added  that 
King  Louis  Philippe  was  driven  out, 
and  that  for  the  present  the  republic 
was  much  spoken  of.  Thereupon 


132 


The  Farm  of  Mniceron. 


Ragaud  declared  that  all  was  lost ; 
for  he,  like  all  those  of  his  age, 
only  understood  the  republic  as  ac- 
companied by  scaffolds,  drownings, 
and  robberies,  as  in  that  of  1793, 
which  he  well  remembered. 

Jeannette,  then,  with  the  consent 
of  M.  le  Cure,  wrote  a  long  and 
touching  letter,  which  she  addressed 
to  Solange,  in  which  she  poured 
forth  all  the  warmth  and  fire  of  her 
little  heart.  The  poor  child  dared 
not  write  directly  to  Jeannet,  in 
the  fear  that  new  events  might  pre- 
vent his  receiving  the  missive  ;  but 
she  did  not  doubt  that  Solange 
would  find  means  to  read  it  to  him 
who  would  receive  so  much  conso- 
lation from  its  contents.  The  mis- 
fortune was  that,  in  the  midst  of 
the  fray,  that  good  girl  could  hear 
nothing  about  her  old  friend  ;  and, 
between  ourselves,  it  was,  I  believe, 
because  she  had  no  permission  to 
mix  herself  up  in  the  affair,  as  she 
lived  retired  and  absorbed  in  prayer 
with  the  other  young  sisters  of  the 
ndvitiate.  It  therefore  followed 
that  when  Jeannet,  in  his  turn, 
wrote  to  M.  le  Cure",  it  seemed,  from 
the  quiet,  sad,  and  cold  tone  of 
his  letter,  that  he  knew  nothing  of 
this  step  of  Jeannette's,  or,  if  he 
knew  it,  he  attached  no  importance 
to  it,  and  wished  them  to  under- 
stand it  was  too  late  to  repair  mat- 
ters. 

It  was  this  last  idea  which  fastened 
itself  in  the  child's  head  as  firmly 
as  a  nail  in  the  wood.  She  became 
profoundly  sad,  which,  according 
to  her  habit,  she  concealed  as  much 
as  possible ;  and  tfyus  passed  weeks 
and  months  without  anything  fur- 
ther being  said  of  the  return  of  the 
dear  boy,  so  fondly  desired  by  all  at 
Muiceron. 

So  far  affairs  in  Paris  went  on 
quietly,  and  the  people  who  believ- 
ed in  scaffolds  began  to  think 


they  might  sign  the  lease  between 
their  shoulders  and  heads.  For 
now  that  all  this  fine  story  is  over, 
it  must  be  avowed  the  first  part  of 
the  revolution  was  more  laugh- 
able than  terrible.  I  had  it  from 
Michou,  who  was  present  and  wit- 
nessed many  things  in  detail,  which 
were  served  up  for  our  amusement 
during  many  of  the  following  win- 
ters. The  good  man  never  wearied 
of  relating  how  the  great  city  of  Pa- 
ris, that  had  driven  off  a  king  from  a 
desire  of  giving  herself  a  hundred 
thousand  in  his  place,  played  at 
comedy  for  three  months,  for  the 
sole  purpose,  I  suppose,  of  afford- 
ing other  countries  a  perpetual  di- 
version. Once,  for  example,  in  re- 
membrance of  spring-time,  a  crowd 
of  little  trees  were  planted  at  all 
the  corners,  as  signs  of  liberty;  and 
as,  for  this  amusement,  each  man 
became  a  gardener  on  his  own  hook, 
without  ever  having  learned  the 
trade,  you  can  imagine  what  chance 
these  precious  emblems  of  freedom 
had  of  flourishing.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary to  say  that  they  fell  down 
and  were  trodden  under  foot  in  a 
very  short  time,  so  that  the  beauti- 
ful green  ornaments  were  renounc- 
ed at  the  end  of  a  few  days  ! 

Another  time,  the  street-boys 
assembled  and  formed  the  brilliant 
resolution  that  they  would  have  a 
general  illumination.  And  then — 
I  really  would  not  have  believed  it, 
if  Jacques  Michou  had  not  vouche*d 
for  the  truth — these  ragamuffins 
ran  in  troops  through  the  streets, 
hand-in-hand,  shouting  out  a  song 
which  had  but  two  words,  always 
sung  to  the  same  tune. 

"Light  up!  light  up!"  they 
cried  at  the  top  of  their  voices ; 
upon  which,  all  classes,  rich  and 
poor,  high  and  low,  obediently 
placed  candles  in  the  windows, 
without  daring  to  utter  a  word 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


133 


against  the  decree ;  and  this  lasted 
more  than  a  fortnight. 

I  will  only  ask,  if  the  king  or 
our  holy  father,  the  Pope,  had  ex- 
acted such  a  thing  even  once,  what 
would  have  been  said?  There 
was  also  the  farce  of  the  laborers, 
who  were  out  of  work,  taking  the 
air,  and  marching  by  thousands 
along  the  quays  to  the  great 
chateau,  where  five  or  six  fine  men 
who  were  called  the  government  re- 
sided, and  "who  were  very  brave  in 
words,  but  became  half  crazy  when 
it  was  time  to  act ;  which  must  not 
be  wondered  at,  as  their  task  was 
none  of  the  easiest.  The  men  ar- 
rived, they  would  send  one  of 
their  number  to  ask  some  little 
favor,  which  was  sure  to  be  promis- 
ed for  next  day.  Then  they  re- 
turned the  same  as  they  came, 
and  so  much  the  worse  for  those 
who  were  found  in  their  way  that 
day ;  for  not  a  cat  could  have  come 
out  alive  among  so  many  legs. 
This  amusement  was  called  "a 
manifestation."  But  to  say  what 
was  ever  manifested  except  want 
and  misery  in  every  house — for 
when  such  promenades  are  made, 
no  work  is  done — is  what  you  may 
learn,  perhaps,  sooner  than  I,  if  the 
day  of  discovery  will  ever  come. 

During  this  time,  they  pretend- 
ed to  make  laws  for  the  country, 
in  a  large  building  where  a  great 
number  of  men  from  the  provinces 
talked  themselves  hoarse  every 
day,  insulting  each  other,  and  even, 
I  have  been  told,  flung  whatever 
they  happened  to  have  near  at 
hand  at  one  another's  heads ;  so 
that  he  who  appeared  the  master 
of  all,  and  was  called  president, 
was  forced  to  speak  with  a  great 
bell,  as  he  could  no  longer  make 
his  voice  heard.  For  those  who 
liked  noise  all  this  row  was  very 
amusing ;  but  quiet  people  were 


obliged  to  shut  their  eyes  and  stop 
up  their  ears.  In  my  opinion,  in- 
stead of  being  contented  with  iriat, 
they  should  have  descended  into 
the  streets,  and  enforced  order 
with  heavy  blows  of  the  cudgel; 
but,  if  they  thought  of  that  later, 
for  the  time  being  good  people 
seemed  asleep,  which  emboldened 
the  rabble  to  such  a  degree  they 
thought  themselves  masters  of  the 
situation. 

You  doubtless  think  our  dear 
good  master,  M.  le  Marquis,  was 
discouraged  at  seeing  the  republic 
established  in  place  of  his  cherish- 
ed hopes.  Not  at  all.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  was  as  ardent  and  fiery  as 
ever,  assured  that  it  was  "  a  ne- 
cessary transition  " — a  phrase  which 
I  repeat  as  I  heard  it,  without  pre- 
tending to  explain  it,  and  which, 
probably,  was  profoundly  wise. 
He  was  very  busy  coming  and  go- 
ing with  his  friends,  and  arranging 
all,  in  words,  for  the  approaching 
arrival  of  the  young  legitimate 
prince,  who  remained  near  the 
frontier  with  a  large  army,  invis- 
ible for  the  time,  but  ready  to 
march  at  a  moment's  notice. 

Jean-Louis  and  Michou  allowed 
themselves  in  secret  to  be  rather 
doubtful  of  these  fine  assertions, 
but,  respectful  and  devoted  as  they 
were  to  that  excellent  gentleman, 
they  made  the  agreement  to  follow 
him  about  like  his  shadow,  and  to 
shield  him  whenever  he  might 
incur  any  risk.  Thus,  whenever 
M.  le  Marquis  was  seen,  near  him 
was  always  the  handsome,  brave 
Jeannet,  with  his  pale,  serious  face, 
or  the  old  game-keeper,  looking 
very  jaunty,  but  with  such  fierce 
eyes  and  strong  arms  a  man  would 
think  twice  before  "attacking  him. 
Dear  mademoiselle,  who  was  half 
dead  with  fear  for  her  father's  life, 
confided  him  entirely  to  his  vU- 


J34 


The  Farm  of  M nicer  on. 


lage  friends,  and  begged  them  every 
morning  to  be  faithful  to  their 
trust.  Besides,  this  good  soul, 
formerly  so  desirous  of  seeing  and 
living  in  Paris,  yawned  there  almost 
as  much  as  at  Val-Saint. 

There  was  not  much  amusement 
going  on  in  society.  Rich  people 
stayed  at  home,  and  guarded  their 
money,  which  was  carefully  con- 
cealed in  some  secure  place,  ready 
to  fly  in  case  of  necessity;  as  for 
out-door  amusements,  none  were 
thought  of.  M.  le  Marquis  had 
something  else  to  do  than  drive 
out  with  his  daughter ;  and  to  cir- 
culate around  among  the  manifes- 
tations was  not  the  most  pleasant 
performance — far  from  it.  Poor 
mademoiselle  seemed  doomed  to 
the  miserable  fate  of  always  run- 
ning after  some  distraction,  fetes, 
and  other  disturbances  of  that 
kind,  without  ever  finding  them. 
Add  to  all  this,  she  was  in  a  con- 
stant state  of  fear,  as  she  was  little 
accustomed  to  the  cries,  songs, 
patrols,  and  threats  which  filled  the 
capital.  Her  only  consolation  was 
to  hope  that  there  would  soon  be 
an  end  of  all  this ;  and  Dame  Ber- 
the  encouraged  her  to  be  patient, 
showing  herself  all  the  while  full 
of  the  idea  of  the  near  triumph  of 
the  cause,  as  she  said.  And  mean- 
time, while  waiting  for  it,  she  em- 
broidered little  strips  of  white 
satin  by  the  dozen,  to  decorate  the 
belts  of  the  king's  officers  when 
the  triumphal  entry  would  be  made 
into  Paris. 

Their  happiest  moment  was  in 
the  evening,  when  these  five  per- 
sons, drawn  together  through 
friendship  and  devotion,  were  re- 
united to  talk  over  the  events  of 
the  day,  and  to  plan  for  the  next. 
M.  le  Marquis  ordered  the  servants 
off  to  bed — for  they  were  not  sure 
but  there  might  be  spies  among 


them — and,  keeping  Jeannet  and 
Michou,  he  joyfully  laid  before 
them  all  his  plans  and  hopes. 
Jean-Louis  listened  with  one  ear; 
and  fortunate  was  it  that  respect 
prevented  him  from  joining  in  the 
conversation,  as  his  remarks  might 
have  been  very  malapropos.  Can 
you  guess  why?  He  thought  of 
other  things ;  and  while  his  master 
soared  away  in  imagination  to  the 
frontier,  where  the  invisible  army 
of  the  king  manoeuvred,  in  heart 
and  soul  he  was  in  the  beloved  spot, 
where  he  lived  over  again  the  happy 
days  of  his  childhood. 

And  thus  they  advanced,  without 
knowing  it,  to  the  terrible  days 
which  gave  the  death-blow  to  the 
republic,  in  the  midst  of  the  blood 
of  so  many  honest  men,  which  flow- 
ed and  mingled  with  that  of  the 
rabble,  for  love  of  good  order, 
which  could  easily  have  been  estab- 
lished without  so  much  suffering. 
Alas  !  it  was  not  the  first  time  in  our 
gay,  beautiful  France  that  things 
have  begun  with  songs  and  pleasant 
jokes,  and  ended  amid  the  noise  of 
cannon  and  the  cries  and  lamenta- 
tions of  the  wounded. 

Before  relating  this  last  part  of 
my  story,  I  must  tell  you  that  oui 
cure,  always  in  correspondence 
with  Jean-Louis,  was  much  aston- 
ished at  the  uniform  coolness  of  his 
letters.  At  last  he  thought  best 
to  ask  an  explanation  during  the 
month  of  May,  advising  him  to  go 
and  see  Solange,  who  for  a  long 
time  had  had  good  news  for  him. 
Do  you  think  it  was  long  before 
Jeannet  ran  quickly  to  the  convent  ? 
When  he  read  that  Jeannette  loved 
him  and  desired  his  return,  he 
nearly  became  wild  with  joy.  So- 
lange let  him  have  the  precious 
letter,  which  he  read  and  re-read 
all  one  night,  so  as  to  be  better 
able  to  reply  to  it.  It  was  time  for 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


135 


things  to  change,  as  Jeannette  de- 
clined visibly  from  the  pain  she 
suffered  in  believing  herself  dis- 
dained. 

It  is  always  so  with  women  (I 
must  make  the  remark) ;  they  tor- 
ure  without  mercy,  or  at  least  with 
Aery  little  thought,  the  poor  hearts 
which  become  attached  to  them ; 
and  then  the  day  they  feel  pain  in 
their  turn  all  must  end  in  the 
quickest  manner,  otherwise  they 
will  die ;  and  then,  again,  they  will 
have  all  the  pity  and  sympathy  on 
their  side.  So  our  two  dear  chil- 
dren made  up  and  became  friends 
with  a  few  words  written  on  paper ; 
and  enchanted  were  they  both,  I 
can  assure  you.  Now  it  was  easy 
to  wait.  Jean- Louis,  in  his  answer, 
showed  the  same  heart,  the  same 
tenderness,  as  formerly.  He  wished 
no  excuses  from  his  sister,  saying 
that  all  the  fault  was  on  his  side — 
which  was  a  big  story,  as  every  one 
could  see  but  himself,  and  made 
them  both  laugh  and  weep  at  Mui- 
ceron. As  for  his  return,  it  was 
not  necessary  to  promise  anything. 
They  knew  well  that  the  day  duty 
would  no  longer  detain  him  he 
vould  take  the  first  train  and  our 
good  friends,  the  Ragauds,  while 
not  wishing  him  to  leave  M.  le  Mar- 
quis, commenced  to  prepare  for  the 
happy  moment,  so  ardently  desired 
by  all. 

Ragaud  told  the  women  it  was 
not  the  time  for  economy,  and  the 
following  week  he  called  in  the 
painters  and  the  masons  to  replas- 
ter  all  the  house,  and  to  give  it  an  air 
of  freshness  inside,  which,  I  must 
acknowledge,  was  very  much  need- 
ed. Jeannette  directed  the  changes 
in  Jean-Louis'  room,  and  I  can  as- 
sure you  she  spared  nothing,  and 
spent  at  least  fifty  francs  of  her  fa- 
ther's crowns  in  a  splendid  paper 
for  the  walls,  which  was  yellow, 


covered  with  large  bouquets  of 
bright  flowers  that  had  the  most 
beautiful  effect.  The  month  of 
June  found  them  busily  occupied ; 
and  then  they  began  to  count,  not 
the  days,  but  the  hours,  that  would 
separate  Jean-Louis  from  the  dear 
home  that  had  adopted  him. 

His  last  letter  announced  his 
speedy  departure.  The  joy  at 
Muiceron,  and  its  holiday  look,  was 
touching  to  see.  Jeannette,  pink 
and  white,  like  an  eglantine  rose, 
had  never  looked  prettier. 

Suddenly,  one  morning,  M.  le 
Cure  entered  the  farm,  and,  in  the 
midst  of  all  this  happiness,  pro- 
nounced these  terrible  words  : 

"  My  children,  they  are  fighting 
in  Paris,  and  we  must  pray  to  God, 
for  the  danger  has  never  been 
greater ;  happy  those  who  will 
come  safe  out  of  it!" 

XXI. 

I  shudder  when  I  speak  of  that 
horrible  time.  Alas  !  we  all  know 
about  the  fearful  struggle  of  blood 
and  tears  called  "The  days  of 
June,  1 8  48." 

Never  did  the  lowering  storm- 
clouds  more  quickly  burst,  and 
never  did  a  great  city,  in  all  the  pride 
of  her  beauty  and  wealth,  come 
nearer  complete  ruin.  Each  quar- 
ter, each  place,  each  cross-way, 
were  battle-fields.  Houses  were 
demolished,  that  barricades  might 
be  erected  across  the  streets ;  and 
this  time,  if  extravagant  accounts 
went  abroad,  not  one  appeared 
exaggerated  in  face  of  the  real 
truth. 

For  three  long,  weary  days — why, 
no  one  ever  knew — the  army  kept 
hidden ;  then  the  sovereign  people 
were  masters  of  the  situation,  and 
acted  as  best  pleased  their  capri- 
cious will ;  and  I  rather  think  no 
body  but  a  fool  could  have  helped 


136 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


being  disgusted  with  serving  such 
kings. 

At  the  end  of  these  three  days,  at 
last  the  cry  was  heard  from  all  the 
barracks,  "Forward!"  And  as  in 
the  time  of  the  great  Napoleon, 
generals  in  fine  uniforms  and  wav- 
ing plumes  dashed  about  on  horse- 
back, and  there  was  a  terrific  noise 
of  cannon  and  musketry.  How 
terrible  was  the  anger  of  the  Lord ! 
For  these  enemies,  who  grappled  in 
the  fierce  death-struggle,  were  chil- 
dren of  the  same  mother,  and  yet 
forgot  it  in  the  midst  of  their  sense- 
less fury  and  thirst  for  vengeance, 
when,  in  truth,  they  had  nothing 
to  avenge. 

What  more  shall  I  tell  you? 
You  know  it  all  better  than  I ;  per- 
haps you  were  there ;  and,  besides, 
it  is  not  so  long  ago  that  you  can- 
not remember  it ;  and  when  you  re- 
call it,  pray  fervently  to  the  good 
God  such  a  time  may  never  again 
be  ours. 

When  the  battalions  moved, 
every  honest  citizen  left  his  bed, 
and  armed,  to  be  ready  to  assist  the 
army.  M.  le  Marquis  was  one  of 
the  first  on  the  scene,  accompanied 
by  his  two  body-guards.  Made- 
moiselle, when  she  saw  them  leave, 
wept,  and  threw  herself  on  her  knees 
in  her  room,  unwilling  to  listen  to 
Dame  Berthe,  who  still  could  have 
the  heart  to  speak  of  "  the  triumph 
of  the  right,"  so  rooted  in  her  head 
was  this  fixed  idea.  Leave  these 
poor  women,  more  to  be  pitied  than 
blamed,  lamenting  and  praying  to 
God,  while  listening,  with  hearts 
half  dead  with  agony,  to  the  noise 
of  the  battle,  and  we  will  see  what 
became  of  the  combatants. 

When  they  left  the  house,  there 
was  no  appearance  of  extraordinary 
excitement,  and  even  the  quarter 
where  M.  le  Marquis  lived,  very 
quiet  at  all  times,  seemed  calmer 


even  than  usual,  for  the  very  good 
reason  that,  of  all  who  occupied  it, 
those  that  were  brave  ran  elsewhere, 
and  the  cowards  buried  themselves, 
like  moles,  in  the  cellars.  Our 
friends  first  went  down  one  long 
street,  crossed  a  second,  a  third, 
and  only  then,  when  coming  up  to 
a  great  bridge  with  a  Prussian 
name  very  difficult  to  spell — and 
therefore  I  cannot  write  it — began 
to  see  and  hear  the  horrors  of  the 
deadly  combat. 

M.  le  Marquis  stopped. 

"  Friends,"  said  he,  "  let  us  make 
the  sign  of  the  cross ;  perhaps  one 
of  us  will  not  return  to  sleep  in  his 
bed,  but  may  be  killed,  wounded,  or 
made  prisoner.  It  is  well  to  pro- 
vide ourselves  with  a  passport  for 
the  other  world,  and  one  more  bless- 
ing for  this  one." 

And  this  excellent  gentleman 
instantly  put  in  practice  what  he 
preached,  pronouncing  aloud  the 
name  of  the  Father,  a*nd  of  the  Son, 
and  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 

"  Come,"  said  he  joyously,  "  I 
feel  younger  by  ten  years.  Ah ! 
while  I  think  of  it,  have  you  white 
cockades  in  your  pockets?" 

"  Faith  !  no,"  said  Michou  ;  "  I 
confess  to  M.  le  Marquis  I  did  not 
dream  of  taking  that  precaution. 
But  we  need  not  worry  about  that ; 
if  we  want  them,  I  will  tear  off  an 
end  of  my  shirt." 

Jean-Louis  had  been  equally 
forgetful  of  the  white  cockades ; 
M.  le  Marquis  told  them  their  heads 
were  turned,  but  forgot  to  add  he 
was  in  the  same  fix ;  for  they  had 
rushed  to  arms  in  such  a  hurry, 
each  one  had  only  taken  time  to 
dress  quickly  and  seize  his  gun,  so 
ardently  desirous  were  they  to  see 
the  end  of  the  masters  of  Paris. 

Soon  they  were  in  the  midst  of 
the  troops  and  a  crowd  of  volun- 
teers like  themselves. 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


137 


The  fight  was  hot.  The  height 
and  solidity  of  the  barricades,  for 
the  most  part  cemented  with  stone 
and  mortar  like  ramparts,  forced 
them  to  establish  a  siege;  and  the 
thick  walls  that  sheltered  the  rioters 
were  only  destroyed  with  the  aid  of 
cannon,  and  after  many  deaths.  I 
must  be  frank,  and  say  it  was  not  a 
•war  very  much  to  the  taste  of  our 
soldiers,  who  like  to  see  the  faces 
of  the  enemies  at  whom  they  aim  ; 
neither,  as  a  first  effort,  was  it  very 
amusing  for  our  friend  Jeannet,  who 
had  never  before  seen  any  fire 
but  that  in  the  chimney  at  Muice- 
ron. So  when  he  found  himself  in 
the  midst  of  the  scuffle,  surrounded 
with  dead  and  wounded,  smoke  in 
his  eyes,  loud  oaths  and  curses  in 
his  ears,  without  counting  the 
whistling  of  the  balls,  which  I  have 
been  told  produces  a  very  droll 
effect  when  not  accustomed  to  it, 
he  stopped  short,  and  looked  so 
stupefied  Michou  laughed  at  him. 
That  old  soldier  had  been  present 
at  the  battle  of  Wagram,  and,  being 
very  young  at  the  time,  was  at  first 
half  crazy  with  fear,  which  did  not 
prevent  him  from  showing  great 
bravery  when  he  recovered  his 
senses.  He  therefore  understood 
from  experience  precisely  how 
Jeannet  felt,  and,  giving  him  a  hard 
blow  on  his  shoulder,  shook  the 
young  fellow's  gun,  which  he  was 
carelessly  pointing  at  random. 

"  Are  you  going  to  let  yourself 
be  killed  like  a  chicken  ?"  he  cried 
to  him,  swearing  tremendously; 
"  be  quick,  my  boy ;  you  can  sleep 
to-morrow." 

Jean-Louis  jumped ;  he  drew 
himself  up  to  his  full  height,  and 
his  handsome  face  reddened  with 
shame,  although  he  had  done  no- 
thing dishonorable. 

"  Jacques,"  said  he,  "I  ar.i  afraid 
I  am  a  coward." 


"Big  mule!"  gaily  cried  the 
game-keeper;  "  on  the  contrary,  by- 
and-by  you  are  going  to  see  how 
we  will  amuse  ourselves." 

They  were  at  the  time  before  a 
barricade,  which  was  most  obsti- 
nately defended.  The  conversation 
could  not  last  long,  but  Jacques 
Michou  did  not  lose  sight  of  the 
boy.  He  saw  that  he  soon  recover- 
ed himself,  and  kept  out  of  the  way 
of  the  balls  as  well  as  he  could — 
something  which  required  as  much 
skill  as  coolness — and  handled  his 
gun  with  as  firm  a  hand  as  though 
he  were  hunting. 

Fighting  went  on  there  for  a 
good  hour.  The  soldiers  began 
to  be  furious,  and,  notwithstand- 
ing the  number  of  killed  on  both 
sides,  no  advantage  was  gained. 
Cannon  were  brought  up ;  at  the 
first  fire,  a  large  breach  was  effected, 
and  it  was  seen  that  the  insurgents 
were  reduced  to  a  small  number, 
who  attempted  to  escape. 

At  that  sight,  the  soldiers  and 
volunteers  could  not  be  restrained. 

"No  prisoners!"  cried  a  hun- 
dred voices,  hoarse  with  rage. 

That  meant  death  to  every  one. 
Our  officers  were  no  longer  masters ; 
the  tide,  once  let  loose,  soon  over- 
flowed, and  a  horrible  mixture  of 
shots,  cries,  and  oaths,  frightful  to 
hear,  pierced  the  air. 

Jeannet  became  as  crazy  as  the 
rest.  He  fired  so  often,  his  gun  was 
burning  in  his  hands ;  his  dishevel- 
led hair,  and  his  face,  blackened 
with  powder,  changed  his  appear- 
ance so  completely  no  one  would 
have  recognized  him.  He  loaded 
and  reloaded,  fired  at  hazard,  and 
no  longer  heard  Michou,  who, 
always  at  his  side,  cried,  "  Look 
out!"  every  moment.  Suddenly 
the  game-keeper  gave  a  yell  that 
resembled  the  howl  of  a  wolf.  A 
man,  covered  with  blood,  had  just 


138 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


leaped  upon  the  ruins  of  the  barri- 
cade, and  aimed  at  Jean-Louis,  who 
was  not  three  steps  from  his  gun. 

It  is  not  easy  to  make  you  under- 
stand the  rapidity  with  which  old 
Michou  threw  himself  before  Jean- 
net  to  preserve  his  life.  It  was 
like  a  flash  of  lightning,  but  that 
flash  sufficed ;  he  had  time  to  fire 
before  the  rioter,  who  rolled  lifeless 
on  the  heaped-up  pavement. 

All  was  ended.  Five  minutes 
afterwards,  at  least  in  that  corner, 
it  only  remained  to  remove  the 
dead,  and  carry  the  wounded  into 
the  neighboring  houses,  where  the 
women  were  ready  to  dress  the 
wounds.  There  was  time  to 
breathe. 

Alas !  the  poor,  blinded  people 
paid  dearly  in  that  quarter  for  their 
folly  and  madness.  All  the  unfor- 
tunate wretches  who  had  raised 
that  barricade  were  dead  or  dying. 

Jacques  looked  around  for  his 
master  and  his  friend.  M.  le  Mar- 
quis, with  his  arm  all  bleeding,  was 
seated  leaning  against  a  post,  very 
weak  and  faint  from  his  wound ;  but 
his  eyes  sparkled,  and  a  smile  was 
upon  his  lips.  The  game-keeper 
rushed  to  him. 

"  It  is  nothing,  old  fellow,"  said 
our  master,  "  only  a  scratch  on  the 
wrist;  lend  me  your  handkerchief." 

By  the  mercy  of  God,  it  was 
really  not  much  ;  and  our  dear  lord 
quietly  wrapped  up  his  hand,  while 
he  asked  about  Jeannet. 

"  Heaven  has  worked  miracles 
for  that  child,"  said  Michou  proud- 
ly. "  Ah  !  he  is  a  brave  boy,  I  tell 
you.  He  fought  both  like  a  fox 
and  a  lion!" 

"I  wish  to  see  him,"  said  M.  le 
Marquis.  "  Go  bring  him  to  me." 

Jacques  willingly  obeyed.  It 
was  some  time  before  he  found  his 
pupil — for  such  he  could  be  called. 
He  was  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd 


that  surrounded  him  and  loaded 
him  with  congratulations  and  com- 
pliments on  his  bravery.  His  con- 
duct had  been  noted,  and  the  com- 
manding officer  was  then  asking 
him  his  name  and  residence,  that 
he  might  inscribe  them  in  his  re- 
port. Jeannet,  who  shrank  from 
observation,  looked  like  a  criminal 
before  his  judges.  Michou,  seeing 
him  so  timid  and  confused,  told 
him  he  was  a  fool,  and  came  very 
near  being  angry  himself. 

"  Just  see  how  frightened  you  are 
now !"  said  he  to  him,  in  such  a 
cross  tone  the  officer  smiled.  "  Ex- 
cuse him,  colonel,  he  always  looks 
sheepish  when  before  people  he 
don't  know.  His  name  is  Jean- 
Louis  Ragaud,  and  he  comes  from 
the  commune  of  Val-Saint-sur- 
Range,  near  Issoudun." 

"All  right,"  said  the  officer; 
"  that  is  enough,  my  brave  fellow. 
Jean  Ragaud,  Gen.  Cavaignac  will 
hear  of  you,  .  .  .  and,  if  it  depends 
on  me,  you  will  hear  from  him." 

Jeannet  bowed  as  awkwardly  as 
possible,  which  made  the  game- 
keeper grumble  again. 

"  Again  I  beg  of  you,"  said  he,  "  to 
keep  that  bewildered  stare.  You 
look  like  the  head  of  S.  John  the 
Baptist,  cut  off  and  laid  on  a  dish, 
that  is  painted  in  our  church.  I 
suppose  it  is  because  you  are  so  un- 
happy !  The  general  will  no  doubt 
send  after  you  to  have  you  hanged — 
unless  he  sends  you  the  Cross  of 
the  Legion  of  Honor.  ..." 

"The  cross!"  cried  Jeannet, 
seizing  the  game-keeper  by  the 
arm. 

"  Yes  indeed,  idiot !  I  know  how 
soldiers  talk ;  would  the  colonel 
have  said  as  much  unless  he  was 
sure  of  the  fact  ?" 

"The  cross!"  repeated  Jean- 
Louis,  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  "  O 
Jacques  Michou!  if  it  were  true!" 


The  Farm  of  Mmceron. 


'39 


"  That  would  make  you  bold,  eh  ? 
And  it  would  be  a  fine  present  to 
take  back  to  Muiceron." 

"  Hush  !"  said  Jeannet :  "  the  bare 
thought  makes  me  crazy." 

"  I  hope  not,"  replied  Michou ; 
"  but  I  would  be  half  wild  myself 
Come,  now,  let  us  be  off;  we  have 
earned  our  dinner.  M.  le  Marquis 
is  asking  for  you." 

"  Wait  a  moment,  good,  kind 
Jacques,"  said  Jean-Louis.  "  I  have 
not  yet  thanked  you ;  and  yet  I 
know  you  saved  my  life." 

"  What  nonsense  !"  said  Michou, 
who  in  his  turn  looked  embarrass- 
ed. "  In  such  a  battle,  do  you  think 
a  fellow  looks  after  any  one's  skin 
but  his  own  ?" 

"  Oh  !  I  saw  you,"  replied  Jean- 
net.  "  You  sprang  before  me,  or  I 
would  have  been  killed." 


"  Listen,"  said  Michou  in  a  sol- 
emn tone,  "  before  God,  who  hears 
me,  and  conducts  all  by  his  divine 
hand,  it  was  not  so  much  your  life 
that  I  wished  to  save,  ...  it  was 
another's  that  I  wished  to  take." 

"How?" 

"  We  should  not  love  revenge," 
replied  the  game-keeper;  "but  the 
temptation  was  too  strong ;  faith ! 
I  am  ready  to  confess  it,  if  it  was  a 
sin — of  which  I  am  not  sure.  Jean- 
net,  he  who  aimed  at  you  from  the 
barricade — didn't  you  recognize 
him  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Jeannet,  "  I  saw  no 
one." 

"It  was  Isidore  Perdreau.  God 
have  mercy  on  his  soul!"  said 
the  game-keeper,  blessing  himself. 
"  My  poor  Barbette  in  heaven  will 
ask  for  my  pardon.  ..." 


1 4Q 


The  Farm  of  M nicer  on. 


XXII. 

DURING  these  terrible  events,  I 
dare  say  the  combatants  were  not 
the  most  to  be  pitied.  They,  at 
least,  were  in  action,  in  the  midst 
of  powder  and  noise  ;  and  if  they 
fell,  wounded  or  dead,  they  scarce- 
ly had  time  to  know  it.  But  think 
of  the  poor  friends  and  relatives 
who  remained  without  news,  and 
almost  without  strength  to  seek 
any  information !  They  were  to  be 
pitied. 

Perhaps  you  may  live  in  a  city, 
which  does  not  prevent  you  from 
sometimes  going  to  the  country ; 
and  so  you  can  understand  how 
certain  villages  are  isolated  from 
all  daily  communication.  Our  ham- 
let of  Ordonniers,  although  near 
the  large  city  of  Issoudun,  was,  in 
this  respect,  worse  off  than  many 
other  places ;  for  when  M.  le  Mar- 
quis was  absent  from  the  chateau, 
there  was  no  daily  paper,  none  of 
the  villagers  being  liberal  enough 
to  -indulge  in  that  luxury.  The 
Perdreaux,  in  their  time,  subscrib- 
ed for  a  paper,  which  came  every 
other  day,  and  gave  the  market 
prices  and  a  jumble  of  news  of 
people  and  things  here  and  there 
about  a  month  old.  Even  this  re- 
source no  longer  existed.  M.  le 
Cure*  was  the  only  one  who  cared 
for  what  was  going  on ;  but  as  his 
means  were  very  limited,  he  con- 
tented himself  with  a  little  paper 
which  only  came  every  Sunday. 

Judge,  then,  of  the  terrible   an- 


guish at  Muiceron  ;  above  all,  when 
they  saw  all  the  able-bodied  men 
of  the  commune  leave ;  for  you  re- 
member that  then,  for  the  first 
time,  the  provinces  showed  their 
teeth  at  the  news  of  the  horrors 
in  Paris,  and  rose  en  masse  to  go 
and  punish  the  rebellious  children 
of  a  city  that,  in  her  selfishness, 
disturbed  the  whole  of  France 
without  any  just  right. 

The  women  displayed  great  bra- 
very. They  fitted  out  their  sons, 
husbands,  brothers,  and  betrothed, 
and  let  them  leave  for  the  dreadful 
struggle  without  wincing.  But  the 
next  day — but  the  following  days! 
What  anxiety  and  what  tears ! 

It  was  touching  to  see  them  each 
morning  run  before  the  country 
stage  or  speak  to  the  letter-carrier, 
in  hopes  of  hearing  some  words 
to  reassure  them.  Generally,  the 
stage  drove  rapidly  on  at  a  gallop ; 
for  stage-drivers  are  not  patient, 
and  the  poor  creatures'  only  in- 
formation was  an  oath  or  rough 
word.  As  for  the  letter-carrier,  he 
knew  nothing  positive,  and  was 
content  to  give  the  flying  reports, 
which  were  not  enough  to  quiet 
those  troubled  souls. 

Jeanne  and  her  mother  kept  at 
home.  They  prayed  to  God  and 
wept,  poor  things !  It  was  the 
best  way  to  learn  patience ;  but 
their  hearts  sank  within  them.  It 
was  a  hard  blow  to  have  been  so 
near  happiness,  and  then  suddenly 
to  see  it  fly,  perhaps  for  ever. 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


141 


Old  Ragaud  was  miserable  that 
he  could  not  go  off  with  the  other 
men  of  the  neighborhood.  He  was 
too  old,  and  this  only  increased  his 
vexation,  as  he  was  but  three  or 
four  years  older  than  Michou,  and 
he  was  in  the  battle  !  The  sadness 
and  ill-humor  of  the  poor  old  fellow 
rendered  Muiceron  still  gloomier, 
and  the  women  neither  dared  stir 
nor  sigh  before  him. 

The  little  they  knew  was  very 
terrible;  and  when  the  private 
letters  began  to  arrive,  all  the 
families  were  plunged  in  despair 
and  sorrow.  Our  commune  alone 
lost  three  men  ;  among  them  Coten- 
tin,  the  miller,  an  honest  peasant, 
and  father  of  four  children.  He 
was  shot  dead,  almost  at  the 
moment  of  his  arrival ;  and  the  next 
day  came  the  news  of  the  death  of 
Sylvain  Astiaud,  son  of  the  head- 
forester,  one  of  our  bravest  boys. 
Each  one  trembled  for  his  own  at 
the  announcement  of  these  mis- 
fortunes, and  at  last  silence  was 
considered  a  sure  sign  that  mourn- 
ing should  be  prepared. 

Jeanne  felt  all  her  courage  fail. 
She  could  no  longer  either  eat  or 
sleep,  and  even  feared  to  question 
the  passers-by.  Certainly  the  good 
God,  who  wished  to  sanctify  the 
poor  child,  and  make  her  a  perfect 
woman,  did  not  spare  her  any  suf- 
fering. He  acted  with  her  like 
a  father  who  is  tender  and  se- 
vere at  the  same  time;  who  cor- 
rects the  faults  of  his  child,  know- 
ing well  that  they  are  more  hurtful 
than  death,  and  then  recompenses 
her  when  petting  can  no  longer 
spoil  her. 

Therefore  this  little  Jeannette 
had  to  go  to  the  end  of  her  trial 
before  relief  came  and  her  tears 
were  dried.  And  this  happened 
through  that  giddy,  wild  Pierre 
Luguet,  who  had  left,  like  the 


others,  singing  and  blustering, 
assuring  the  people  around  that  he 
did  not  believe  a  word  of  the  cur- 
rent rumors,  and  that,  in  one  hour 
after  his  arrival  in  Paris,  he  would 
find  out  the  whole  truth,  and  send 
them  all  the  news.  But,  behold !  as 
soon  as  he  was  in  the  midst  of 
smoking  and  bleeding  Paris,  he 
lost  his  senses,  imagined  himself 
killed  before  he  had  fired  a  shot, 
and  wrote  in  pencil,  on  a  scrap  of 
blood-stained  paper,  a  letter  to  his 
parents,  all  sighs  and  tears.  He 
bade  them  farewell,  and  begged  them 
to  pray  for  his  soul,  as  he  would  be 
dead  before  night ;  for  no  one  could 
live  in  such  a  terrible  conflict.  If 
he  had  only  spoken  for  himself,  it 
might  have  passed ;  but  he  added 
that  M.  le  Marquis,  Jean-Louis,  and 
Michou  were  certainly  dead.  He 
had  sought  for  them  everywhere, 
asked  everybody,  and  no  one 
could  give  him  good  news.  To 
crown  his  stupidity,  he  added  that, 
among  the  great  heaps  of  corpses 
that  lay  yet  unburied,  he  had 
recognized  Jean-Louis'  blouse  of 
gray  linen  bound  with  black ;  and 
therefore  they  must  weep  for  the 
death  of  that  good,  brave  boy. 

Poor  Mme.  Luguet  ran  straight 
to  Muiceron  to  show  that  foolish 
letter.  If  there  had  been  the  least 
degree  of  cool  good  sense  among 
them,  it  would  easily  have  been 
seen  they  were  the  words  of  a 
brain  addled  from  fear ;  but  in  the 
mortal  anxiety  of  the  poor  Ragauds, 
they  took  it  all  for  good  coin. 
Jeanne  fell  on  her  knees,  sobbing 
aloud,  and,  losing  the  little  courage 
she  still  possessed,  wrung  her  hands 
in  despair.  Pierrette  threw  herself 
beside  her  daughter,  trying  to 
comfort  her;  and  Ragaud  wept 
bitterly,  although  he  had  said  a 
thousand  times  a  man  in  tears 
is  not  worthy  to  wear  breeches.  In 


I42 


The  Farm  of  Mule er on. 


the  evening,  the  true  religion  which 
filled  those  poor  hearts  came  to  sup- 
port them  and  give  them  some 
strength.  They  lighted  tapers  be- 
fore the  crucifix  and  around  the 
Blessed  Virgin,  and  all  night  this 
afflicted  family  prayed  ardently  for 
the  repose  of  the  souls  of  the  sup- 
posed dead — who  were  never  bet- 
ter. 

The  next  day  you  would  have 
been  shocked  to  have  seen  the 
ravages  grief  had  made  on  their 
honest  faces.  Jeannette,  wearied 
out  with  weeping  and  fatigue,  slept 
in  the  arms  of  her  mother,  paler 
than  a  camomile-flower.  Pierrette 
restrained  her  tears,  from  fear  of 
awake-ning  the  child ;  but  her  hol- 
low eyes  and  cheeks  were  pitiful  to 
see  ;  and  the  sun  shone  brightly  in 
the  room,  without  any  one  taking 
the  trouble  to  close  the  shutters. 

It  was  in  this  state  that  M.  le 
Cure"  found  the  Ragaud  family. 
His  entrance  at  Muiceron  renewed 
the  lamentations ;  but  Jeannette 
was  calm,  which  greatly  pleased  the 
good  pastor,  as  he  saw  that  his 
lessons,  joined  to  those  of  divine 
Providence,  had  borne  their  fruit. 

He  took  the  little  thing  aside, 
and,  much  affected  by  her  deathlike 
appearance,  spoke  gently  to  her, 
and  asked  her  to  walk  with  him  on 
the  bank  of  La  Range. 

"  My  daughter,"  said  he,  "  it  is 
not  right  to  sink  into  such  utter 
despair  about  news  which  is  yet 
uncertain.  Show  a  little  more  cour- 
age, for  a  while  at  least,  until  we 
hear  something  positive." 

"  He  is  dead,"  said  Jeannette. 
"  May  the  will  of  God  be  done ! 
Alas !  I  should  have  been  too 
happy,  if  I  had  seen  him  again." 

"  Why  are  you  so  certain  ?  As 
for  me,  I  confess  Pierre's  letter 
would  not  make  me  lose  all  hope." 

"  They  were  three  together,"  said 


she.  "  Pierre  has  written ;  could 
they  not  have  written  also  ?" 

This  argument  was  not  bad.  The 
curd  could  not  reply ;  for,  without 
acknowledging  it,  he  did  think  the 
silence  very  strange.  He  made  the 
poor  child  sit  down  by  the  side  of 
the  swift-running  stream  that  glit- 
tered in  the  bright  sunshine,  and 
spoke  to  her  for  a  long  time  in 
such  soothing,  touching  words, 
Jeanne  listened  with  profound  re- 
spect and  piety.  He  spoke  of  the 
happiness  of  this  world,  which  is 
but  for  a  short  time ;  of  the  neces- 
sity of  living  and  regaining  her 
strength,  tl\at  she  might  console 
her  parents ;  of  the  beautiful  day  of 
eternity ;  of  the  heavenly  home, 
where  we  will  meet  again  the  loved 
ones  gone  before  us,  never  again  to 
be  separated. 

At  another  time,  Jeannette  would 
not  have  understood  these  words, 
and  perhaps  might  have  even  found 
them  out  of  place ;  but  now  they 
fell  upon  her  heart  like  soft  ca- 
resses. 

"Oh  !"  said  she,  "  it  is  only  now 
I  understand  how  dearly  I  loved 
him.  Father,  tell  me,  can  he  see 
us  from  above?" 

"  You  will  have  it,  then,  that  he 
is  absolutely  dead,"  said  the  curt, 
smiling. 

Jeannette,  in  spite  of  her  grief, 
smiled  in  her  tears. 

"  That  is  true,"  she  said  ;  "  per- 
haps he  is  not  dead." 

Hope  had  re-entered  her  soul 
with  the  consolations  of  the  holy 
priest.  They  walked  down  the 
road  to  the  farm,  and  Jeannette 
thanked  him  with  much  tenderness, 
and  remarked,  as  it  was  near  sunset, 
he  must  return  home. 

"  One  moment,"  said  the  good 
curl ;  "you  are  a  little  egotist.  I 
can't  go  without  saying  a  word  to 
father  and  mother," 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


"  Oh  !  yes,"  said  she,  "  of  course 
you  must ;  but,  dear  father,  I  will 
remain  here,  and  say  my  rosary  in 
the  shade  under  the  trees ;  the  air 
will  completely  restore  me." 

"Very  well,  dear  child,"  replied 
the  cure  j  "  and  may  the  Blessed 
Virgin  console  you,  my  daughter!" 

Jeanne  retired  under  the  heavy 
foliage,  and  really  took  her  little 
rosary  out  of  her  pocket.  But  this 
wood  recalled  many  sweet  reminis- 
cences. It  was  there  Jean-Louis 
had  found  her  and  saved  her  life 
on  that  stormy  night  the  year  be- 
fore. She  looked  for  the  spot,  near 
the  woodman's  cabin,  where  he 
had  taken  her  in  his  arms  with  a 
father's  care;  and  as  the  remem- 
brance of  all  this  past  happiness, 
which  she  had  then  slighted,  came 
back  to  her  heart,  she  leant  against 
a  tree,  and  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

Whether  they  were  tears  of  re- 
pentance, of  regret,  of  love,  or  of 
prayer  that  fell  from  her  eyes  God 
only  knows ;  and  surely,  in  his  infi- 
nite goodness,  he  waited  for  this 
moment  of  supreme  anguish,  which 
could  not  have  endured  much  lon- 
ger, to  say  to  that  heart-broken 
child,  "  You  have  suffered  enough ; 
now  be  happy  !" 

For  in  that  same  hour  Jean- 
Louis,  wild  with  joy,  leaped  from 
the  imperial  of  the  country  stage 
on  the  highroad,  and  ran,  without 
stopping  to  take  breath,  toward  his 
beloved  Muiceron. 

He  also  remembered  the  stormy 
night,  and,  from  a  sentiment  you 
can  well  understand,  wished  to  see 
again  the  little  hut,  if  only  to  throw 
a  passing  glance. 

He  reached  the  spot,  and  was 
soon  near  the  tree  where  Jeannette 
leant  motionless.  He  recognized 
her.  The  beating  of  his  heart  almost 
suffocated  him;  for,  with  a  lover's 


instinct,  he  immediately  knew,  if 
she  had  come  to  weep  in  that  spot, 
it  could  only  be  on  his  account. 

He  advanced  until  he  stood  close 
behind  her. 

"Jeanne!"  said  he,  so  softly  he 
scarcely  heard  his  own  voice. 

Jeannette  turned,  and  gave  one 
scream.  Her  eyes  wandered  a 
moment,  as  if  she  had  seen  a  phan- 
tom, and  she  fell  half-dead  into  his 
arms. 

"  Jeanne  !  dear,  dear  Jeanne  ! 
don't  you  know  me  ?"  said  he,  press- 
ing her  to  his  breast.  "  I  have 
caused  you  much  sorrow,  but  it  is 
all  over — oh  !  it  is  all  over ;  tell 
me,  is  it  not?" 

The  poor  child  could  not  speak ; 
her  emotion  and  joy  were  too  great. 
But  such  happiness  don't  kill ;  and 
gradually  she  revived,  although  she 
still  trembled  like  a  leaf. 

"  O  Jeannet !"  she  said  at 
last,  "  they  wrote  word  you  were 
dead." 

"And  was  that  the  reason  you 
were  weeping  here  all  alone  in  this 
wood,  my  poor,  dear  darling?"  he 
tenderly  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  looking  down  ; 
"  I  could  not  be  consoled.  Why 
did  you  not  send  us  some  news?" 

"  I  wished  to  surprise  you,"  said 
he,  with  simplicity ;  "  and  now  I 
see  I  did  wrong." 

"  One  day  more,  and  I  would 
have  been  dead  also,"  said  she, 
leaning  on  his  arm.  "  Cruel  boy, 
go!" 

She  looked  so  lovely,  still  pale 
with  grief,  and  yet  as  lively  and 
coquettish  as  before,  Jeannet  was 
obliged  to  clasp  her  once  again  in 
his  arms,  and  even  kissed  her,  for 
which  I  hope  you  will  pardon  him, 
as  I  do. 

"  How  good  God  is,"  said  he,  "  to 
permit  us  to  meet  again  in  this  very 
place !  This  is  the  second  time, 


144 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


dear  Jeannette,  that  I  have  saved 
you  when  in  great  trouble ;  and  I 
hope  it  is  a  sure  sign  that  poor 
Jean-Louis  will  be  able  to  comfort 
and  assist  you  all  the  rest  of  his  life." 

"  You  will  never  leave  us  again ; 
you  will  promise  that  ?"  she  replied. 
"When  you  are  away,  all  sorts 
of  misfortunes  happen.  Oh !  how 
much  we  have  suffered." 

And  as  these  words  suddenly  re- 
called the  sad  events  of  the  last  six 
months,  her  flirtation,  her  thought- 
less conduct,  and  the  lamentable 
scenes  that  followed,  she  blushed, 
sighed,  and  leant  her  face,  down 
which  the  tears  were  streaming, 
against  Jean-Louis'  shoulder. 

"  My  own  Jeannette,"  said  he, 
"  you  must  no  longer  think  of  all 
that  sorrow,  now  that  God  has 
made  us  so  happy  again.  There  is 
no  misfortune  which  does  not  carry 
with  it  a  profitable  lesson  when  we 
recognize  in  it  the  hand  of  the 
Lord;  and,  for  my  part,  although 
I  have  been  nearly  dead  with  grief, 
•I  say  that  my  present  happiness 
has  not  been  too  dearly  bought, 
and  I  would  consent  to  pass  again 
through  the  same  trials,  on  condi- 
tion of  possessing  a  second  day 
like  this." 

"  Oh  !  no,"  said  Jeanne,  "  I  have 
had  enough.  I  have  not  your  cour- 
age, and  I  will  pray  to  God  that  I 
may  be  spared  from  such  great 
trials.  Come,"  added  she,  taking 
Jeannet's  arm,  "we  must  go  and 
surprise  our  parents.  And  the  dear 
curt  is  just  now  with  them  !  He 
told  me  so — the  good,  holy  man 
told  me  you  were  not  dead." 

"But  who  set  such  a  report 
afloat  ?"  asked  Jeannet.  "  For  really 
I  was  not  even  in  danger." 

"Oh !  what  a  story,"  cried  Jeanne. 
"You  were  in  the  fight;  it  could 
not  be  otherwise." 

"Certainly,"    said    Jeannet,   "I 


fought,  and  did  my  best;  but  I 
never  for  an  instant  imagined  the 
good  God  would  let  me  die  without 
seeing  you  agai»." 

"  It  is  very  well  to  have  such 
happy  thoughts,"  said  Jeanne  joy- 
fully ;  "  if  I  could  have  had  them,  I 
would  not  have  been  nearly  dead 
with  anxiety,  and  hopeless  from 
such  great  fear.  Now  I  regret  my 
tears,  and  would  like  to  take  them 
back." 

"  You  would  not  be  the  richer  for 
it,"  said  he,  laughing;  "but,  Jean- 
nette, don't  laugh  at  me.  It  was 
neither  presumption  nor  careless- 
ness made  me  think  so.  The  good 
God  put  the  faith  in  my  heart ;  and 
then,  didn't  I  have  round  my  neck 
the  silver  medal  you  gave  me  the  day 
of  your  first  communion  ?  Wasn't 
the  image  of  the  Blessed  Virgin 
powerful  enough  to  turn  aside  the 
balls  ?" 

"What!"  said  Jeannette  with 
emotion,  "have  you  still  my  medal  ? 
Is  it  the  very  same  one  ?  Have 
you  always  worn  it,  in  spite  ...  in 
spite  of  all  ...  Jeannet,  show  it  to 
me;  let  me  kiss  it!" 

"  No,"  said  Jean-Louis,  blushing, 
"not  now.  I  will  show  it  to  you 
later." 

"  Right  away ;  I  won't  wait,"  said 
she  in  the  peremptory  manner 
which  so  well  became  her.  "  I  like 
to  be  obeyed." 

"But,"  said  Jeannet,  much  em- 
barrassed, "I  can't,  because  .  .  ." 

"  Because  what  ?  "  she  replied. 
"  Don't  think  you  are  going  to  be 
master  here  !  No,  no,  not  more 
now  than  before,  when,  you  remem- 
ber, my  mother  said,  'Jeannette 
is  the  boy.  .  .  .'" 

"  Really,"  answered  Jean-Louis, 
"  you  have  a  good  memory.  Well, 
then,  since  Jeannette  is  the  boy, 
and  I  am  the  girl,  I  must  submit  to 
her  wishes." 


Farm  of  Muiceron* 


And  as,  in  spite  of  all  this  talk, 
he  made  no  attempt  to  show  her 
the  medal,  another  idea  entered 
her  head. 

"You  are  wounded,"  said  she, 
"and  you  don't  wish  me  to  see  it." 

"  That  is  not  the  reason,"  he  re- 
plied, unbuttoning  his  vest.  "  I 
don't  wish  you  to  believe  any  such 
thing." 

On  opening  his  shirt,  he  showed 
the  medal  on  his  breast,  and  then 
the  curious  Jeannette  understood 
his  resistance ;  for,  near  the  blessed 
image  of  our  dear  Mother,  she  re- 
cognized the  long  tress  of  blonde 
hair  which  had  been  cut  off  during 
her  illness. 

"  It  has  never  left  me,"  said  he ; 
"but  I  dared  not  let  you  see  it. 
Do  you  forgive  me?  Your  poor 
hair !  I  said  to  myself,  While  it  rests 
upon  my  heart,  it  is  as  though  my 
little  sister  were  watching  over  me. 
And  in  the  fight,  I  thought  that,  as 
the  medal  of  the  Blessed  Virgin 
and  your  precious  souvenir  were 
also  exposed  to  the  fire,  I  could 
not  be  killed;  and  you  see  I  was 
not  mistaken." 

"  Oh  !"  cried  Jeannette,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  "cny  dear  Jeannet,  I 
do  not  deserve  such  love." 

They  reached  Muiceron,  arm-in- 
arm. Oh  !  how  refreshing  was  the 
shaded  court-yard  and  the  fra- 
grant hedges  !  And  then,  the  dear 
house  looked  so  gay  in  its  new 
white  coat,  its  green  shutters,  the 
fresh  young  vines  that  hung  from 
the  trellis,  and  its  slate  roof  newly 
repaired,  all  shining  in  the  soft 
rays  of  the  sinking  sun.  The  songs 
of  the  bulfinch  and  robin  were 
more  joyous  than  the  trumpets  and 
horns  on  a  patronal  feast;  and  it 
seemed  as  though  the  good  God  in 
heaven  were  well  pleased,  so  beau- 
tiful was  the  blue  sky,  flecked  with 
golden-edged  clouds !  Was  it  real- 


ly the  house  we  saw  six  months  ago  ? 
Jeannet,  who  had  long  loved  it, 
scarcely  recognized  it;  he  was 
mute  with  admiration,  and,  although 
he  had  left  it  in  despair,  he  ac- 
cused himself  of  having  neglected 
to  look  at  it  until  now ;  for  surely 
his  memory  did  not  recall  anything 
as  joyous  and  beautiful  as  he  now 
beheld  in  his  beloved  Muiceron. 

Shall  we  ask  the  reason  ?  There 
is  a  great  artist  who  can  paint,  with 
colors  of  unparalleled  brilliancy, 
whatever  he  chooses  to  place  before 
our  eyes.  He  is  called  happiness ; 
and  God  wishes  him  to  walk  beside 
us,  both  in  this  world  and  the 
other. 

The  two  dear  children  began  to 
run  as  soon  as  they  entered  the 
court-yard  of  Muiceron.  Jean- 
nette was  the  first  to  spring  across 
the  threshold,  and  fell  speechless 
into  her  mother's  arms.  Jean- 
Louis  quickly  followed  her,  and 
stood  in  the  door-way,  holding  out 
his  hands  to  his  parents.  Then 
there  were  cries,  and  tears,  and 
confusion  of  kisses,  and  questions 
without  end  and  without  reason. 
Their  hearts  overflowed.  The  little 
one,  as  they  always  called  the  tall, 
handsome  boy,  was  covered  with 
caresses,  stifled  with  embraces 
quite  overpowering;  for  country- 
people  drink  in  joy  by  the  bucket- 
ful and  don't  put  on  gloves  when 
they  wish  to  show  their  love.  But 
you  can  imagine  Jean-Louis  did 
not  complain.  M.  le  Cur£  alone 
kept  aside,  with  clasped  hands, 
from  time  to  time  putting  his 
handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  and 
thanking  God,  while  he  waited  his 
turn. 

Gradually  their  happiness  toned 
down  a  little ;  but  the  excitement 
was  so  great,  each  one  showed  his  joy 
in  some  particular  manner.  Old 
Ragaud  whirled  around  the  room, 


146 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


took  off  his  cap  to  smooth  his  hair, 
and  replaced  it,  all  the  while  laugh- 
ing as  though  he  did  not  know  pre- 
cisely what  he  was  about ;  and 
Pierrette  forgot  to  ask  the  children 
what  they  wished  to  eat,  which  was 
a  sure  sign  her  head  was  completely 
turned.  As  for  Jeannette,  I  must 
tell  you  that,  like  all  innocent, 
warm-hearted  young  girls,  she 
dared  act,  in  presence  of  her  pa- 
rents and  M.  le  Cur£,  as  she  would 
not  have  done  alone  with  her 
brother;  she  threw  her  arms  around 
his  neck  every  half-second,  and 
clung  to  him  so  closely  he  could 
not  stir  an  inch.  Jeannet  did  not 
show  greater  timidity;  seeing  her 
act  with  such  nawet^  he  neither 
frowned  nor  looked  sour,  but  ac- 
cepted willingly  what  was  so  sweet- 
ly offered  him. 

Fortunately,  Marion,  whom  no 
one  thought  of,  and  who  bellowed 
with  joy  in  chorus  with  the  others, 
came  to  her  senses  sooner  than  any 
of  them,  and  thought  of  the  supper. 
Jeannet  smelt  the  butter  frying  on 
the  stove,  and  acknowledged  he 
was  very  hungry.  This  covered  Pier- 
rette with  confusion.  She  felt  very 
guilty  that  she  had  so  neglected 
her  duties,  and  asked  a  thousand 
pardons;  but  Jeannet  laughed,  as 
he  kissed  her,  and  told  her  not  to 
be  excited,  as  he  could  easily  wait 
until  the  next  day,  being  only  really 
hungry  to  see  and  kiss  her. 

Ragaud  would  not  let  the  dear 
curt  go  home.  It  was  right  that 
he  should  wait  until  the  end  of  the 
feast ;  and  as  the  good  pastor,  who 
always  thought  of  everything,  ex- 
pressed a  fear  that  old  Germain  e 
might  be  anxious  about  him,  they 
despatched  a  stable-boy,  with  the 
wagon  and  quickest  mare  at  Muice- 
ron, to  fetch  her. 

What  a  fine  supper  that  was ! 
All  these  good  people  recovered 


their  appetites,  and  ate  and  drank 
as  they  had  not  done  for  a  long 
while.  I  leave  you  to  imagine  the 
stories  that  were  told  of  the  revolu- 
tion. But  Jeannet,  not  wishing  to 
cloud  their  present  joy,  was  careful 
to  relate  events  as  though  all  had 
been  a  kind  of  child's  play.  Jean- 
nette, however,  paused  more  than 
once  as  she  was  about  to  take  a 
mouthful.  She  felt  that  Jean-Louis 
stretched  a  point  now  and  then  for 
love  of  her,  and  she  showed  her 
gratitude  by  looking  tenderly  at 
him,  while  she  pressed  his  hand  un- 
der the  table. 

At  the  dessert,  they  formed  plans. 
They  talked  of  re-establishing  the 
old  order  of  things,  of  living  to- 
gether again  in  peace  and  harmony, 
and  that  there  should  be  no  more 
separations.  Ragaud,  especially, 
dwelt  at  length,  and  very  particu- 
larly, upon  the  happy  future  in 
store  for  all  of  them  ;  threw  mean- 
ing glances  right  and  left,  in  which 
could  be  remarked  much  hidden 
meaning  and  not  a  little  white 
wine.  Jeannette  smiled,  blushed, 
looked  down ;  and,  I  fancy,  Jean- 
Louis'  heart  beat  high  with  hope 
and  expectation  of  what  was  to  fol- 
low. 

The  good  man  ended  by  being 
much  affected,  though  he  endea- 
vored to'  pass  it  all  off  as  a  joke  ;  for 
it  was  his  wish  always  to  appear 
deaf  to  any  kind  of  sentiment. 

"After  all,"  said  he,  tapping 
Jean-Louis  on  the  shoulder,  "here 
is  a  boy  upon  whom  we  cannot 
depend.  He  is  here  now  at  this 
very  moment;  but  who  knows  if 
to-morrow  he  will  not  be  out  of 
sight  as  quickly  as  the  stars  fall 
from  the  sky  on  an  August  night  ? 
Isn't  it  so,  M.  le  Cure"?" 

"  It  is  just  as  you  say,  Ragaud," 
replied  Jhe  curt.  " '  He  who  has 
drunk  will  drink  again,'  says  the 


The  Farm  cf  Miiiceron. 


147 


proverb ;  and  as  this  little  one  went 
off  once  without  giving  warning, 
how  can  we  know  but  he  will  do  it 
again?" 

"  Oh  !  what  nonsense,"  said  Jean- 
net.  "  My  dear  parents,  I  will  never 
leave  you  again  1" 

"  Hum!"  replied  Ragaud,  "  you 
said  that  a  hundred  times  before, 
and  then  what  did  we  see?  One 
fine  morning,  no  Jeannet !" 

"  We  must  tie  him,"  said  old 
Germaine,  laughing ;  "  when  Jean- 
nette  misbehaved  in  school,  I  used 
to  tie  her  by  the  arm  to  an  end  of 
the  bench." 

"  I  remember  it  well,"  said  Jean- 
nette ;  "  and  more  than  once  I  broke 
the  string." 

"  Then  we  must  find  some  other 
means,  if  that  will  not  do;  think 
of  something,  Germaine,"  replied 
Ragaud,  winking  Over  at  the  chil- 
dren. 

"Think  yourself,  M.  Ragaud," 
said  she.  "Are  you  not  master 
here  ?" 

"  That  depends,"  replied  Ragaud. 
"  If  I  were  master,  I  would  say  to 
Jean-Louis,  Marry,  my  boy ;  when 
you  will  have  a  wife  and  children, 
they  will  keep  you  in  the  country 
more  than  all  the  ropes,  even  that 
of  our  well.  But  Jeannet  has  de- 
clared he  will  not  hear  of  marriage ; 
and  here  is  Jeanne,  who  can't  be 
relied  upon  for  advice,  as  she  said 
the  same  thing  not  more  than  a 
month  ago,  in  presence  of  M.  le 
Cure";  so  we  can't  sing  that  tune 
any  longer." 

"  But  how  do  you  know  ?  Per- 
haps by  this  time  they  have  both 
changed  their  minds,"  said  the  curt> 
smiling. 

"  Let  them  say  so,  then,"  replied 
Ragaud,  his  eyes  beaming  with  pa- 
ternal tenderness  that  was  delight- 
ful to  see. 

"O    father!"    said    Jean-Louis, 


rising,  "if  I  dared  to  understand 
you,  I  would  be  wild  with  joy  !" 

"If  you  can't  understand  me, 
little  one,  Jeannette  perhaps  ,can 
be  a  little  quicker.  Speak,  Jean- 
neton  !" 

The  child  instantly  understood 
his  meaning.  In  a  second  she 
was  beside  Jeannet,  took  his  hand, 
and  both  knelt  down  before  their 
father. 

"  My  children,  ask  M.  le  Cure's 
blessing  before  mine,"  said  Ragaud 
solemnly.  "  He  is  the  representa- 
tive of  the  good  God,  and  it  is  God 
who  has  conducted  all." 

It  was  a  touching  scene.  The 
good  curt  extended  his  trembling 
hands  over  Jean-Louis  and  Jean- 
nette, who  bent  low  before  him, 
weeping ;  then  Ragaud  did  the 
same  with  great  simplicity,  which  is 
the  sign  of  true  piety,  and  then 
Pierrette  took  each  of  their  dear 
heads  in  her  arms,  kissed  them,  and 
said : 

"  My  poor  darlings  !  May  God 
protect  you  all  the  days  of  your  life  ! 
You  have  wept  so  much,  you  de- 
serve to  be  happy  together." 

The  poor  children  were  over- 
whelmed with  joy  so  deep  and 
tranquil  they  could  neither  move 
nor  speak.  They  kept  close  to- 
gether, and  looked  tenderly  at  each 
other  with  eyes  that  said  much. 
M.  le  Cure*  left  them  for  awhile  to 
themselves  and  their  new-found 
happiness.  He  knew  enough  of  the 
human  heart  to  understand  that 
great  display  of  affection,  loud 
weeping,  and  noisy  parade  of  words 
and  actions  are  often  marks  of  a 
very  little  fire  in  the  soul ;  while 
love  which  has  been  proved  by 
deeds,  and  which  is  scarcely  seen, 
is  always  very  ardent.  As  he  had 
never  doubted  that  Jeannet,  hither- 
to so  perfect,  would  show  and  feel 
sincere  affection  as  a  lover,  he  wad 


I4S 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


glad  to  see  he  was  not  mistaken, 
and  regarded  with  much  pleasure 
this  young  couple,  who  were  so  well 
matched. 

However,  it  was  very  easy  to  see 
our  curt  had  something  to  say. 
Jean-Louis  and  Jeannette  had  soft- 
ly retreated  to  the  corner  near  the 
sideboard,  a  little  out  of  sight  of 
the  parents ;  and  we  must  imagine 
that,  feeling  themselves  a  little 
more  at  ease  thus  sheltered  from 
observation,  the  faculty  of  speech 
returned  to  them,  as  they  could  be 
heard  whispering  and  laughing  like 
children  at  recreation.  It  was  so 
charming  to  see  them  thus  relieved 
from  all  their  difficulties,  and  swim- 
ming in  the  full  tide  of  happiness, 
like  fish  in  the  river,  no  one  had  the 
courage  to  disturb  them. 

But  our  curt  had  his  own  idea, 
and  would  not  leave  until  he  had 
made  it  known ;  so,  as  he  saw  Jean- 
Louis  and  Jeannette  might  chatter 
away  a  long  while,  he  rose,  as  if  to 
say  good-night,  which  made  all  the 
rest  rise;  for,  although  intensely 
happy,  they  did  not  forget  to  be 
civil. 

"  My  children,"  said  the  pastor, 
addressing  the  old  as  well  as  the 
young,  "  I  will  go  to  sleep  to-night 
very  happy.  For  forty  years,  come 
next  All-Saints,  that  I  have  been 
your  curt,  never  have  I  assisted  at 
a  betrothal  as  consoling  as  yours, 
for  which  I  will  return  thanks  to 
God  all  my  life.  You  are  going  to 
marry  as  is  seldom  done  in  the 
world  nowadays;  that  is  to  say, 
with  hearts  even  more  full  of  esteem 
than  of  love,  which  enables  me,  in 
the  name  of  the  Lord,  to  promise 
you  as  much  happiness  as  can  fall 
to  the  lot  of  mortals  here  below. 
You  know  already  that  a  house 
built  without  foundation  cannot 
stand,  and  that  the  grain  sown  in 
bad  soil  bears  no  fruit.  It  is  the 


same  with  the  sacrament  of  mar- 
riage, when  it  is  received  by  a  soul 
that  is  frivolous  and  vain,  and  feels 
neither  regret  for  the  past  nor 
makes  good  resolutions  for  the  fu- 
ture. Oh  !  how  happy  I  am  I  can- 
not say  this  about  you;  and  how 
my  old  heart,  which  has  pitied  all 
your  sufferings,  now  is  gladdened 
at  your  happiness,  well  deserved  by 
the  piety  and  resignation  of  the  one 
and  the  sincere  repentance  of  the 
other — this  is  for  our  betrothed. 
Great  disinterestedness,  and  all  the 
domestic  virtues  of  a  Christian 
life  is  the  praise  I  unhesitatingly 
bestow  upon  you,  the  good  parents ! 
But  if  this  reward  is  beautiful,  if 
nothing  can  'exceed  it,  since  it  is  the 
pledge  of  a  whole  life  of  peace  and 
happiness,  know  that  the  Lord  will 
not  be  surpassed  in  generosity,  and 
that  he  has  prepared  a  delightful 
surprise  by  my  mouth,  which  will 
be  like  the  crowning  bouquet  on 
the  summit  of  an  edifice  just  com- 
pleted. 

"  My  dear  Ragaud,  I  speak  now  to 
you.  Twenty  years  ago,  when  your 
generous  heart  received,  without  the 
slightest  hesitation,  a  poor,  abandon- 
ed child,  it  was  an  honorable  and 
religious  act,  which  deserved  the 
warmest  praise ;  but  to-day,  when 
you  give  your  only  daughter  to  this 
same  child,  from  pure  esteem  of  his 
noble  qualities,  without  regard  to 
the  gossip  of  the  people  around, 
this  second  action  surpasses  the 
first  in  excellence,  and  deserves  a 
special  recompense  from  our  good 
God. 

"  Well !  you  will  soon  have  it. 
Jean-Louis,  my  child,  as  it  is  general- 
ly said,  there  is  no  sky  without 
clouds.  Perhaps  even  at  this  mo- 
ment your  heart  may  have  a  little 
secret  grief;  for  it  is  not  forbidden 
to  feel  an  honest  wish  to  give  the 
woman  you  love  all  possible  honor ; 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


149 


and  that  cannot  be  done  when  one 
comes  into  the  world  without  fami- 
ly or  name. 

"  Alas  !  for  the  name.  I  cannot  re- 
pair that  misfortune;  but  for  the 
family,  know,  my  friends,  that  the 
blood  of  him  whom  you  call  son 
and  brother  is  equal  to  yours.  In 
the  name  of  my  conscience,  I  here 
declare  that  Jeannet  is  the  son  of 
Catharine  Luguet,  who  died  in  my 
arms  sincerely  repentant,  and  most 
piously  giving  me  perfect  license  to 
reveal  this  secret,  confided  in  con- 
fession, when  I  should  judge  it 
necessary.  I  have  waited  a  long 
time,  and  I  do  not  regret  it.  At 
no  other  time,  I  think,  could  you 
have  been  happier  to  hear  me  tell 
such  good  news.  So,  Ragaud,  em- 
brace your  nephew ;  and  you,  my 
daughter  Jeannette,  in  taking  a 
perfect  husband,  you  gain,  at  the 
same  time,  a  good  cousin.  Too 
much  happiness  never  hurts  any 
one!" 

"Ah!"  said  Germaine,  wiping 
her  eyes,  "  it  was  worth  while  stay- 
ing so  late  to-night.  I  have  been 
tempted  half  a  dozen  times  to  tell 
what  M.  le  Cure1  has  just  made 
known;  for  I  also  received  the 
secret  from  poor  dear  Catharine, 
and  even  before  my  master,  al- 
though I  do  not  pretend  to  inter- 
fere with  his  rights." 

"M.  le  Cure","  said  Ragaud,  "if 
I  am  very  happy  to  learn  that  our 
dear  child  belongs  to  us  by  nature 
as  much  as  by  friendship,  believe  me 
when  I  say  that  I  am  most  grateful 
to  God  that,  without  my  knowing 
it,  he  allowed  me  to  repair  the  too 
great  severity  with  which  I  formerly 
treated  my  niece.  Alas !  I  well  re- 
member it,  and  most  sincerely  do  I 
regret  it;  and  if  she  gave  us  this 
handsome  boy  a  little  too  soon,  ac- 
cording to  the  laws  of  God  and 
man,  I  have  no  right  to  blame  her, 


as  I  was  the  cause,  from  want  of 
gentleness  and  kindness!  Come, 
my  son,"  added  the  good  Christian, 
extending  his  arms  to  Jeannet — 
"  come,  that  I  may  ask  your  pardon 
in  memory  of  your  poor  mother." 

Jean-Louis  threw  himself  on  his 
father's  breast,  whom  he  could  not 
yet  call  dear  uncle,  while  Jeannette 
added  her  embrace,  giving  herself 
up  to  the  full  joy  of  eousining  her 
future  husband.  Pierrette  had  her 
full  share  of  kisses,  you  can  well 
fancy.  It  was  so  delightful  to  feel 
that  he  really  had  a  family,  and  was 
bound  to  the  country  by  ties  of 
flesh  and  blood,  and  also  to  know 
that  he  belonged  to  the  best  people 
in  the  neighborhood,  the  Luguets 
and  Ragauds,  that  Jeannet,  who  in 
his  whole  life  never  had  a  spark  of 
vanity,  felt  a  little  glow  of  excite- 
ment and  satisfaction,  perfectly  na- 
tural, flame  up  in  his  heart.  But 
his  beautiful  soul  quickly  drove  out 
such  a  feeling,  to  which  he  al- 
ready reproached  himself  for  hav- 
ing listened,  even  for  a  moment,  al- 
though it  could  be  easily  under- 
stood, and  was  honorable  in  itself. 
The  remembrance  of  his  unknown 
mother,  dying  in  sorrow  and  want, 
and  who  would  have  been  so  happy 
could  she  have  witnessed  his  pre- 
sent joy,  surmounted  any  personal 
satisfaction.  He  questioned  M.  le 
Cure,  and  spoke  in  the  most  tender 
and  respectful  manner  in  memory 
of  his  poor  mother,  and  wished  to 
know  every  detail  of  her  death, 
which  was  sad,  but  very  consoling 
at  the  same  time. 

Every  one  listened  with  much 
emotion  to  poor  Catharine's  story. 
I  doubt  not  that  God  then  permit- 
ted her  to  know  something  of  the 
loving  sympathy  and  compassion 
that  filled  those  kind,  good  hearts, 
which  most  certainly  must  have 
added  to  her  happiness  ;  for,  since 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


the  church  commands  us  to  believe 
that  souls  cannot  die,  can  it  be 
wrong  to  think  that  they  see  and 
hear  us,  when  the  Lord  allows 
them  ? 

Jeannette,  while  the  cur/  spoke, 
was  often  much  confused  when  she 
thought  of  the  dangerous  result  of 
coquetry,  wilfulness,  and  too  great 
love  of  one's  own  pretty  face  and 
fine  dresses.  She  felt  how  kind 
God  had  been  to  her,  that  she  had 
not  gone  the  same  way  as  Catha- 
rine Luguet;  for  she  had  walked 
down  the  same  path,  and  had  nearly 
fallen  as  low  as  she. 

By  way  of  recovering  her  spirits, 
she  embraced  Jeannet,  and  pro- 
mised she  would  be  a  good  house- 
keeper, and  nothing  else. 

"  And  also  a  pretty  little  wife, 
that  will  make  me  very  happy,"  re- 
plied Jeannet,  pressing  her  to  his 
heart. 

"Now,"  said  Pierrette,  who  for 
several  moments  had  been  very  si- 
lent and  thoughtful,  "  I  have  just 
found  out  something  that  makes 
me  feel  how  stupid  I  am.  I  never 
before  noticed  that  Jeannet  is  the 
living  image  of  his  dear  departed 
mother." 

"  It  is  fortunate,  Mme.  Ragaud," 
said  Germaine,  "  that  you  have  just 
perceived  it,  after  seeing  him  twen- 
ty years;  for,  in  truth,  the  likeness 
is  so  striking  it  has  caused  M.  le 
Cur6  and  me  much  embarrassment. 
It  was  so  easily  seen  that  I  prayed 
God  would  protect  him  in  case  of 
discovery ;  and  if  there  is  one  mira- 
cle in  the  whole  story,  it  is  that 
such  a  strong  resemblance  did  not 
sooner  strike  you." 

As  it  had  just  been  mentioned,  in 
the  course  of  the  story,  that  Catha- 
rine Luguet,  in  her  day,  was  the 
most  beautiful  girl  in  the  coun- 
try, this  declaration  made  Jeannet 
blush,  and  I  dare  not  affirm  it  was 


not  from  pleasure.  They  discov- 
ered, also,  that  Solange  had  a  strong 
family  likeness,  and  Pierrette,  more 
and  more  astonished,  acknowledged 
it  was  true,  and  that  she  was  as 
stupid  as  an  owl. 

They  had  to  separate  at  last,  al- 
though no  one  felt  the  least  fa- 
tigued ;  but  they  had  had  enough 
for  one  day,  and  a  little  sleep  after 
these  heavy  showers  of  happiness 
would  injure  none  of  them. 

As  the  surprises  were  not  yet 
over,  Jeannet  had  another  charm- 
ing one  when  he  saw  his  room 
newly  painted  and  papered,  and  his 
bed,  with  white  curtains,  perfumed 
with  the  iris-root  that  our  house- 
keepers love  to  use  in  the  wash. 
They  installed  him  like  a  prefect 
on  a  tour  of  inspection,  with  a 
procession  of  lights,  and  wishes  of 
good-night,  and  what  do  you  want, 
and  there  it  was,  and  here  it  is ;  and 
if  he  slept  quietly  is  something  I 
cannot  say  positively;  but,  at  any 
rate,  you  needn't  worry  about  his 
eyes,  whether  they  were  open  or 
shut.  What  I  can  swear  to  is 
that  his  good  angel  watched  joyful- 
ly by  his  bedside,  and  took  care  to 
drive  off  all  bad  dreams. 

XXIII. 

Now,  I  might  make  my  bow,  and 
wish  you  good-night  in  my  turn  ; 
for  I  think  you  are  satisfied  with 
the  fate  of  the  little  ones,  and  need 
have  no  further  anxiety  on  their 
account.  But  just  as  two  beautiful 
roses  in  a  bouquet  appear  still 
»more  beautiful  when  they  are 
surrounded  by  other  flowers  and 
green  leaves  that  rejoice  the  eye, 
so  our  friends  will  lose  nothing  if 
I  represent  them  to  you  for  the  last 
time  among  the  companions  of 
their  adventures  who  have  served 
as  an  escort  during  the  whole  re- 
cital. Consequently,  if  you  will  be 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


patient  a  moment  and  listen  to  me, 
I  will  tell  you  what  became  of  the 
people  and  things  that  have  re- 
mained in  the  background  for 
some  time. 

In  the  first  place,  according  to 
the  proverb,  "Give  every  man  his 
due." 

So  we  will  commence  with  our 
good  master,  M.  le  Marquis,  whom 
we  left,  if  you  remember,  wounded 
in  the  arm  and  seated  on  a  log 
near  the  barricade  in  the  bloody 
days  of  June. 

This  wound,  which  was  believed 
to  be  nothing,  became  inflamed 
and  very  dangerous,  owing  to  the 
great  excitement  of  the  patient 
and  the  extreme  heat  of  the  sum- 
mer. The  poor  marquis  was  oblig- 
ed to  keep  his  bed  for  a  long  time, 
and  they  even  feared  they  would 
be  obliged  to  amputate  the  arm. 
When  the  physicians  made  the 
proposition,  he  sprang  up  with  a 
start  on  his  couch,  and,  weak  and 
feverish  as  he  was,  did  not  hesitate 
to  tell  them,  in  the  most  emphatic 
manner,  that  the  first  one  who 
mentioned  it  again  would  go  out 
of  the  window  with  one  turn  of  the 
hand  that  was  still  sound.  They 
advised  him  to  be  quiet  and  calm 
himself,  all  the  while  giving  him  to 
understand  there  was  no  hope  for 
him — which,  in  my  opinion,  was  not 
the  best  means  of  soothing  him  ; 
but  doctors  never  wish  to  be 
thought  in  the  wrong,  and,  without 
meaning  to  offend  any  one,  I  may 
say  very  many  of  us  are  doctors  on 
that  point. 

Our  master  was  brave.  He  con- 
tented himself  with  saying : 

"  I  prefer  to  be  buried  with  two 
arms,  rather  than  to  live  with  one." 

"  That  depends  on  taste,"  replied 
Michou,  who  nursed  his  master 
with  loving  fidelity  ;  "  but  he  must 
not  be  contradicted." 


When  the  doctors  left,  M.  le 
Marquis  said  to  Michou  : 

"  Come  here,  old  fellow ;  these 
idiots  of  Parisians  know  as  much 
about  revolutions  and  medicine  as 
planting  cabbages.  Send  for  Dr. 
Aubry.  I  can  get  along  with  him." 

M.  Aubry  was  summoned  by 
telegraph,  and  God  so  willed  it 
that  scarcely  had  he  seen  the 
wound  of  M.  le  Marquis  than  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said 
he  would  answer  for  him ;  and 
added,  with  much  satisfaction,  that 
one  had  to  come  to  Paris  to  find 
doctors  that  talked  like  asses  and 
acted  like  butchers. 

He  made  them  bring  him  a 
quantity  of  pounded  ice,  which  he 
applied  to  the  wounded  arm,  <* 
took  care  that  our  master  always 
kept  a  piece  in  his  mouth.  In  that 
way  his  blood  was  refreshed,  and 
there  was  no  longer  danger  of  the 
flesh  mortifying.  He  added  to 
this  remedy  another  potion  not 
less  wonderful,  which  was  to  dis- 
tract the  mind  of  the  marquis  by 
telling  him  night  and  day — for  he 
never  slept — all  kinds  of  stories, 
sometimes  lively,  sometimes  serious, 
but  always  suitable  to  his  state ;  and 
so  kept  him  constantly  amused  and 
interested,  which  prevented  him 
from  thinking  of  his  poor  arm.  At 
the  end  of  a  week,  he  was  out  of 
danger,  and  he  could  get  up,  eat 
the  breast  of  a  chicken,  and  think 
of  going  out  in  a  few  days.  If  I 
would  be  a  little  malicious,  I  could 
tell  you  that  the  Parisian  doctors 
were  not  very  well  pleased  at  the 
triumph  of  their  country  colleague, 
and  perhaps  would  have  been  more 
content  to  see  our  master  dead  than 
their  prophecies  frustrated  ;  but 
I  had  better  be  silent  than  wanting 
in  charity,  and  therefore  I  prefer 
to  let  you  think  what  you  please 
about  them. 


152 


The  Farm  of  M nicer  on. 


Poor  mademoiselle  and  Dame 
Berthe,  during  this  painful  time 
of  anxiety,  acted  admirably  and 
showed  great  devotion  and  love. 
It  was  then  seen  that,  although 
they  had  their  little  defects  on  the 
surface,  their  souls  were  generous 
and  good.  The  old  governess  for- 
got her  scarfs  and  embroideries, 
and  devoted  herself  to  making  lint, 
and  no  longer  indulged  in  dreams 
of  the  king's  entrance  into  Pa- 
ris, but  constantly  recited  fervent 
prayers,  which  had  not,  I  assure 
you, "  the  cause"  in  view.  Mademoi- 
selle received  a  salutary  blow. 
She  became,  through  this  trouble, 
serious  and  recollected ;  began  to 
see  that  in  Paris  nothing  is 
thought  of  but  pleasure  and  fine 
toilets,  and  that,  after  all,  at  Val- 
Saint  there  were  a  thousand  ways 
of  passing  her  life  in  a  pleasant  way 
worthy  of  a  Christian  whom  God 
had  so  liberally  endowed  with 
riches. 

One  day,  when  she  had  gone  out 
to  pray  and  weep  in  a  neighboring 
church,  she  returned  with  her  eyes 
radiant  with  joy,  and  said  to  Dame 
Berthe : 

"  All  will  be  right.  My  father  will 
be  cured.  I  cannot  explain  to  you 
why  I  am  so  confident,  but  I  am 
sure  of  it.  When  I  was  in  the 
church  before  the  altar  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin,  the  idea  entered 
into  my  head  to  make  a  vow ;  and  I 
have  promised  to  return  to  the 
country,  and  remain  there  the  rest 
of  my  life,  to  work  for  the  poor, 
and  to  occupy  myself  with  all  other 
kinds  of  good  works,  as  my  mother 
used  to.  I  have  too  long  neglect- 
ed to  follow  her  example,  and 
henceforth  I  will  act  differently.  I 
depend  upon  your  assistance." 

Dame  Berthe  nearly  fainted  with 
admiration  of  her  pupil's  saintli- 
ness.  As  she  was  naturally  very 


good,  she  was  impressed  with  the 
beauty  of  the  project,  and  promised 
to  do  all  in  her  power  to  aid  her. 

After  that,  mademoiselle  looked 
liked  another  person.  She  visited 
churches  and  chapels,  conferred 
with  pious  priests ;  and  as  mon- 
sieur improved  every  day,  he  could 
accompany  her  in  the  carriage; 
and  she  took  great  pleasure  in 
confiding  to  him  her  new  plans, 
proving  to  him  that  he  could  be 
much  more  useful  to  "  the  cause  " 
by  instructing  the  peasants  in  poli- 
tics than  by  fighting  the  rabble  in 
Paris ;  that,  by  his  great  wealth  and 
the  high  esteem  in  which  he  was 
held,  he  could  make  himself  still 
more  beloved ;  and  that,  when  they 
loved  him,  they  would  love  the  no- 
bility which  he  represented  ;  so  that 
when  the  time  came — and  it  would 
not  be  far  off — for  the  triumph  of 
his  hopes,  he  could  offer  to  the 
king  a  faithful  population  devoted  to 
good  principles,  which  was  scarcely 
possible  in  the  present  state  of 
affairs. 

As  she  was  in  this  happy  frame 
of  mind,  you  can  imagine  with 
what  joy  mademoiselle  received  the 
news  of  the  engagement  of  Jean- 
Louis  and  Jeanne.  She  immedi- 
ately wrote  a  letter  on  the  subject 
which  deserved  to  be  put  under 
glass  and  framed  in  gold ;  for  not 
only  did  she  congratulate  the  Ra- 
gauds  with  the  greatest  affection, 
but  she  humbly  accused  herself  of 
having  nearly  ruined  the  happiness 
of  her  god-daughter,  and  thanked 
God  he  had  directed  all  in  a  man- 
ner so  contrary  to  her  wishes. 
When  you  think  that  this  high-born 
young  lady  spoke  thus  to  the  little 
daughter  of  a  farmer  on  her  estate, 
we  must  admire  the  miracles  of  the 
religion  which  teaches  us  that  those 
who  humble  themselves  shall  be  ex- 
alted ;  and  I  add,  for  the  benefit  of 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron. 


153 


those  who  fancy  themselves  lovers 
of  equality,  and  talk  all  kind  of 
nonsense  about  it,  that  there  never 
would  have  been  the  slightest 
chance  of  planting  a  seed  of  it  in  the 
hearts  of  men,  even  though  it  were 
no  bigger  than  a  grain  of  millet,  if 
they  had  not  beforehand  received 
instructions  on  that  virtue  from  our 
dear  mother,  the  church. 

About  a  month  afterwards,  M.  le 
Marquis  being  perfectly  cured,  they 
all  returned  to  Val-Saint ;  and  it  is 
unnecessary  to  say  how  universal 
was  the  joy.  It  is  equally  useless 
to  tell  you  that  their  first  occupa- 
tion was  the  marriage  of  our  chil- 
dren, which  was  so  beautiful,  so 
joyous,  so  enlivened  with  the 
music  of  violins  and  songs,  it  re- 
sembled that  of  a  prince  and  prin- 
cess in  Mother  Goose.  During  a 
whole  week,  the  boys  of  the  neigh- 
borhood beat  tin  pans  and  fired  off 
guns  under  the  windows  of  Mui- 
ceron, as  signs  of  honor  and  re- 
joicing. With  us  peasants,  joy  is 
always  rather  noisy,  but,  at  least,  it 
can  be  heard  very  far ;  and,  besides, 
as  we  don't  often  have  a  chance  of 
amusing  ourselves,  it  is  best  to  let 
us  have  our  own  way. 

There  remains  very  little  more 
for  me  to  say,  except  that  made- 
moiselle persevered  in  her  laudable 
resolutions,  and  became  the  angel 
of  Val-Saint.  One  of  her  first  good 
acts  was  to  buy  the  house  of  the 
unfortunate  Perdreaux,  which,  since 
the  sad  end  of  its  masters,  had  re- 
mained deserted  and  shut  up,  no 
one  daring  to  put  it  up  at  auction. 
Mademoiselle  sent  for  workmen, 
who  soon  transformed  it  into  a 
fine  school-house,  divided  into  two 
parts  by  a  garden,  where  nothing 
was  spared  in  fruit-trees,  flowers, 
and  vegetables.  The  following 
year  the  school  was  ready  for  occu- 
pation, and  the  Sisters  were  placed 


in  charge  of  the  girls,  and  a  good 
teacher  over  the  boys.  By  good 
luck,  they  were  able  to  obtain  So- 
lange,  who  came  among  the  first. 
Thus  all  our  friends  met  again,  and 
formed  one  family,  of  which  the 
good  God  was  the  true  father. 

M.  le  Cure  was  very  old  when  he 
died,  and  Germaine  soon  followed 
him.  This  good  pastor  left  many 
regrets  which  are  not  yet  assuaged ; 
but  he  departed  from  this  world 
happy  that  he  saw  all  his  children 
around  him  leading  good,  holy 
lives ;  and  at  the  moment  he  expir- 
ed, they  heard  him  Se.'tly  repeat 
the  Nunc  dimittis  servitm  tuumy 
D  online,  secundum  verbum  tuum  in 
pace — which  is  a  prayer  of  compline, 
printed  in  all  the  Breviaries. 

Muiceron  continued  to  prosper 
under  the  management  of  good 
Jeannet  and  his  dear  wife.  The 
Ragauds  passed  their  old  age  in 
a  dream  of  happiness,  free  from 
clouds,  amidst  the  love  and  respect 
of  the  community.  Pierrette,  who 
had  never  sinned  but  from  weak- 
ness'of  heart,  was  never  cured  of 
this  defect.  On  the  contrary,  it  in- 
creased ;  and  she  devoted  herself  so 
completely  to  spoiling  the  beautiful 
children  that  Jeanne  gave  her,  that 
more  than  once  the  parents  had  to 
cry,  Stop  !  But  aside  from  these  lit- 
tle troubles,  which  did  not  cause 
much  difficulty,  peace  and  concord 
never  ceased  to  reign  in  this  house 
of  benediction. 

As  the  last  flower  in  the  crown, 
I  will  tell  you  that  M.  Aubry,  who 
was  not  remarkable  for  devotion, 
was  taken  in  hand  by  Sister  Solange, 
and  quietly  converted.  He  swore 
a  little  at  first,  as  might  have  been 
expected,  and  said  it  was  a  shame, 
at  his  age,  to  fall  into  the  net  of  a 
doctor  in  cornette  and  petticoats, 
at  whose  birth  he  had  been  present, 
and  whom  he  had  vaccinated  ;  but 


154 


The  Farm  of  Muiceron? 


the  end  of  all  was,  the  eornette  led 
him  by  the  nose  to  Mass  and  con- 
fession, where  he  was  seen  to  weep, 
although  he  tried  to  be  very  firm. 
As  he  was  a  good  man,  frank  and 
open  in  all  he  did,  once  the  step 
was  taken,  he  did  not  go  back ;  and 
I  knew  him  a  long  while,  and  never 


saw  him  act    but    like  a  perfect 
Christian. 

And  now,  at  this  late  hour,  I 
pray  that  God  may  send  down 
upon  you,  as  well  as  myself,  his 
choicest  blessings,  without  which, 
you  may  truly  believe,  there  is  no- 
thing worth  living  for  here  below. 


A     000126233     6 


